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BOOKS  BY  CHARLES  BELMONT  DAVIS 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


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HER  OWN  SORT 
AND  OTHERS 


.  OF  CALIF.  USKARY.  LOS 


Kimball  had  played  many  love  scenes  with  Natalie. 

(Page  16) 


HER  OWN  SORT 
AND  OTHERS 


BY 
CHARLES   BELMONT   DAVIS 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published,  March,  1917 


To 
JEANNE   AND   CONSTANCE   TURGEON 


2129300 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

HER  OWN  SORT  ......          1 

THE  OCTOPUS       .......        38 

GOD'S  MATERIAL  ......      108 

THE  JOY  OP  DYING      .          .          .          .          .          .127 

WHEN  JOHNNY  CAME  MARCHING  HOME  .          .151 

THE  PROFESSOR    .          .          .          .          .          .          .195 

THE  TWENTY-FIRST  REASON  .          .          .          .218 

SIDE-TRACKED       .......      238 

THE  MEN  WHO  WOULD  "DIE"  FOR  HER       .          .     267 
HER  MAN   .  305 


vii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Kimball  had  played  many  love  scenes  with  Natalie 

Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

Throughout  the  long,  hot  afternoon  the  cameras  con- 
tinued to  click  off  thousands  of  feet  of  films      .      26 

Confused  and  still  blushing,  Johnny  heartily  thanked 
the  young  man 118 

Mr.  Brown-Jones  smiled  as  if  a  new  and  beautiful 
idea  had  just  entered  his  good-looking  head  .      .124 

She  pinned  the  flower  in  the  folds  of  her  cool  white 
dress 220 

"In  the  first  place,"  Tolliver  began,  "on  what  do  you 
two  expect  to  live?" 226 


HER  OWN  SORT 

A.LL  of  their  friends  knew  that  it  was  only  a  ques- 
tion of  the  time  and  the  place  when  Alan  Godfrey 
would  propose  to  Natalie  Eyre.  That  he  was  going 
to  propose  was  just  as  'certain  in  their  minds  as 
it  was  that  the  good-looking,  whimsical,  poverty- 
stricken  Natalie  would  accept  so  eligible  a  young 
man  as  Godfrey.  They  had  been  playing  golf  all 
afternoon  and  when  the  game  was  over  Natalie  sug- 
gested that,  instead  of  stopping  at  the  clubhouse, 
they  return  at  once  to  Mrs.  Goddard's,  where  she 
was  staying  and  where  they  could  have  a  quiet,  peace- 
ful chat  over  a  cup  of  tea.  Had  it  been  her  wish 
to  hasten  Godfrey's  declaration,  she  could  not  more 
wisely  have  chosen  the  setting  for  the  sentimental 
event.  It  was  a  brilliant,  golden  afternoon  in  late 
August.  The  two  young  people  sat  across  a  wicker 
tea-table  under  a  canopy  at  the  far  end  of  the  ter- 
race. Below  them  stretched  the  calm  blue  waters 
of  the  ocean,  and  on  the  other  side  a  wonderful  lawn 

1 


HER    OWN    SORT 

studded  with  spreading  oaks  through  whose  branches 
the  sunshine  filtered  and  fell  in  orange  splotches  on 
the  Nile-green  turf.  The  stage  was  set,  the  hour 
was  at  hand,  and  therefore  Godfrey,  in  a  few  brief 
sentences,  but  every  word  of  which  came  straight 
from  the  heart,  told  Natalie  of  his  great  love  for  her. 
When  he  had  finished,  he  started  to  rise  and  go  to 
the  girl's  side  so  that  she  might  whisper  the  answer 
he  had  waited  so  long  to  hear,  but,  looking  him  stead- 
ily in  the  eyes,  Natalie  shook  her  head,  and,  with  a 
slight  gesture  of  her  hand,  motioned  him  away. 

For  a  moment  the  confused,  un-understanding  eyes 
of  Godfrey  held  those  of  the  girl,  and  then  his  big 
frame  settled  slowly  back  into  the  depths  of  the  low 
chair  in  which  he  had  been  sitting. 

"Alan,  dear,"  she  began,  "it  would  be  foolish  of 
me  to  pretend  that  I  didn't  know  that  you  cared  or 
that  I  had  not  expected  that  some  day  you  would  tell 
me  so — just  as  you  have  told  me.  To  be  quite  hon- 
est, it  is  about  all  that  I  have  thought  of  for,  oh, 
such  a  very  long  time.  Because,  you  see,  I  knew 
that  my  answer  would  be  the  most  important  thing 
I  would  probably  ever  have  to  say  in  all  my  life. 
I  love  you,  Alan,  I  am  quite  sure,  more  than  I  shall 
ever  love  any  one — except,  perhaps,  myself." 

2 


HER    OWN    SORT 

Hope  flamed  up  in  Godfrey's  eyes  and  once  more 
he  started  to  rise,  but  again  Natalie  motioned  him 
back.  "I  love  you,"  she  went  on,  "and  I  know  that 
you  would  willingly  grant  me  my  every  wish  and 
every  whim — that  is,  if  you  could." 

Godfrey  crossed  his  arms,  pressed  his  lips  into  a 
straight  line,  and  smiled  grimly  across  the  table. 

"So  far  as  material  things  go,  Natalie,"  he  said, 
"I  can  offer  you  a  good  deal.  I  know  that  there 
are  other  things  that  I  cannot  offer  you.  Do  you 
mind  telling  me  of  which  of  these  you  were  think- 
ing?" 

Natalie  turned  her  eyes  from  Godfrey  and,  for  a 
few  moments,  let  them  rest  on  the  broad  stretch  of 
blue,  sparkling  waters,  and  then  once  more  turned 
them  back  to  the  man. 

"Oh,  so  many  things,  Alan,"  she  said — "such  a 
lot  of  things.  You  see,  in  a  way,  I  lead  two  lives 
and  you  lead  but  one.  From  one  of  my  lives  I  get 
the  great  happiness  that  comes  from  hard  work  and 
hard  thinking — all  I  get  from  the  other  is  physical 
luxury  and  plenty  of  healthy  exercise.  I'm  tired  of 
being  a  little  daughter  of  the  rich.  Since  my  people 
died  I  have  been  really  nothing  but  a  well-bred, 
well-mannered  grafter.  I'm  tired  of  luxury  and  I'm 

3 


HER    OWN    SORT 

tired  of  the  crowd  that  makes  luxury  possible  for 
me — I  mean  your  crowd,  Alan,  and  my  crowd." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  that  it's  such  a  bad  crowd," 
Godfrey  protested. 

"Of  course,  it  isn't  a  bad  crowd,"  the  girl  agreed 
cheerfully.  "It's  only  the  society  journals  and  the 
Sunday  supplements  that  try  to  make  our  sort 
vicious.  But  you  and  I  know  that  they're  not  vicious 
— we  know  they're  just  amateurs — amateur  farmers 
and  amateur  business  men  and  amateur  lovers.  I 
want  to  try  my  luck  against  professionals.  You 
mustn't  forget,  Alan,  that  I've  had  two  novels 
published  already." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Godfrey  laughed,  "but  to  be  quite 
fair,  weren't  they  published  through  Ned  Powell  and 
isn't  Powell  the  silent  partner  in  the  firm  that  pub- 
lished them?" 

Natalie's  delicate  pink- and- white  coloring  suddenly 
turned  scarlet. 

"Yes,"  she  threw  at  him,  "that's  true  enough,  and 
it's  also  true  that  with  all  Ned  Powell's  influence  back 
of  them  the  books  didn't  sell.  But  instead  of  remind- 
ing me  of  my  failures,  don't  you  think  it  would  be 
a  trifle  more  kindly  of  you  if  you  tried  to  hold  out 
a  little  encouragement  for  the  future?  I  think  you 

4 


HER    OWN    SORT 

would  if  you  knew  how  really  and  truly  I  was  a  little 
sister  of  the  rich.  No  one  knows  just  how  much 
what  is  vulgarly  called  a  successful  marriage  would 
mean  to  me  now.  Not  even  you  know  how  little  there 
is  between  me  and  starvation.  Believe  me,  Alan, 
there  are  not  many  girls  in  my  position  who  would 
throw  you  over  just  because  they  wanted  to  make 
good  on  their  own.  If  you " 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  Natalie,"  Godfrey  inter- 
rupted. "It's  not  that  I'm  not  appreciative,  so  much 
as  it  is  that  I'm  selfish.  You  see,  I  want  you  all 
for  myself  in  this  world  of  amateurs.  And  as  for 
you  being  near  starvation,  that's  just  plain  morbid. 
There  are  a  whole  lot  of  things  between  you  and 
starvation- — there's  me,  for  instance,  and  there's 
Mrs.  Goddard,  and — and  lots  of  good  friends  who 
would  consider  it  a  very  great  privilege  to  help  you 
over  the  hard  places." 

Natalie  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  brought  the 
talk  to  a  blunt  and  almost  brutal  end  by  rising  from 
her  chair  and  holding  out  her  hand. 

"Thank  you,  Alan,"  she  said,  "but  it's  the  hard 
places  that  make  life  worth  the  living — especially  if 
one  tries  to  get  over  them  unaided.  But  don't  ever 
talk, to  me  again  of  marriage  as  you  have  just  now. 


HER    OWN    SORT 

You  know  you're  a  good  deal  of  a  temptation,  Alan. 
I'll  be  leaving  Newport  in  a  few  days,  but  of  course 
I'll  see  you  before  I  go?" 

Godfrey  was  standing  very  close  to  the  girl  and 
holding  her  hand  in  both  of  his  own.  For  the  first 
time  he  seemed  to  realize  that  all  of  his  hopes,  all 
of  the  plans  he  had  made  for  the  future  had  come 
to  naught  and  that  in  his  great  ambition  he  had 
failed  miserably. 

"Why,  yes,  Natalie,"  he  stammered,  "of  course  I'll 
see  you  again — many  times,  I  hope.  But  what  are 
you  going  to  do  when  you  leave  here,  especially — I 
mean " 

"You  mean  especially  when  I'm  broke,"  Natalie 
interrupted.  "Why,  Alan,  I'm  going  back  to  town 
and  try  my  luck  against  the  real  workers,  and — loose 
myself  from  my  old  friends.  The  next  time  you  see 
me,  it  may  be  behind  a  counter,  or  pounding  the  keys 
of  a  typewriter  in  the  office  of  one  of  your  broker 
friends,  or  singing  and  dancing  in  the  chorus  of  a 
musical  comedy.  I  don't  know.  But  I  do  know 
that  for  the  present,  at  least,  I've  got  to  break  away 
from  my  old  life  and — and  you,  Alan.  I'm  too  weak 
to  try  any  half-way  course." 

"I'm  sorry,"  Godfrey  said  gravely,  and,  raising 
6 


the  girl's  hand,  touched  it  with  his  lips.  "Good-by, 
Natalie  and  good  luck  to  you,"  he  added,  and  then, 
suddenly  turning  his  broad  shoulders  toward  the 
girl  he  loved,  swung  off  across  the  sunlit  lawn. 

During  the  six  months  that  followed,  Natalie  Eyre 
did  some  of  the  things  she  had  told  Alan  Godfrey 
that  summer  afternoon  that  she  was  going  to  do. 
And  although  during  that  period  she  was  never 
starved,  there  were  moments  when  she  would  have 
greatly  relished  better  food  and  more  of  it.  She 
did  not  try  to  be  a  stenographer,  because  she  had 
not  had  the  necessary  training,  but  she  did  do  some 
clerical  work  in  a  publishing  house,  as  well  as  posing 
for  several  artists  who  made  illustrations  and  covers 
for  the  magazines.  Although  with  small  practical 
success,  she  had  continued  her  literary  labors,  and, 
on  account  of  her  fragile  and  flower-like  beauty,  had 
been  given  a  very  small  part  in  the  ballroom  scene 
of  a  drama  of  modern  society.  It  so  happened  that 
the  play  was  a  success,  and  therefore,  night  after 
night,  in  the  front  rows  and  in  the  boxes,  Natalie 
recognized  many  of  her  former  friends.  To  their 
frequent  invitations  to  join  them  at  supper  she 
always  replied  that  her  work  prevented  her  from 
going  anywhere. 

7 


HER    OWN    SORT 

But,  work  and  study  as  she  might,  she  soon  dis- 
covered that  without  personal  or  financial  backing 
advancement  on  the  stage  came  very  slowly,  and  in 
her  search  for  a  better  position  she  continued  to 
haunt  the  offices  of  the  managers  and  the  theatrical 
agencies.  It  was  a  hard,  sordid  road  that  she  had 
chosen  to  follow,  but  the  art  of  acting  interested 
her  exceedingly,  and,  above  all,  she  wished  to  prove 
to  Alan  Godfrey  and  the  friends  of  her  more  affluent 
days  that  she  was  capable  of  earning  her  own  live- 
lihood. This,  at  least,  she  did,  but  it  was  often  at 
great  privation  to  her  physical  well-being.  After  a 
short  time,  however,  she  became  fairly  callous  to  her 
material  needs  and  her  only  annoyance  was  caused 
by  the  question  that  was  constantly  presenting  itself 
to  her  mind  as  to  whether  or  not  her  moral  outlook 
on  life  had  undergone  any  radical  change.  For  a 
time  after  she  had  begun  her  career  on  the  stage, 
she  had  maintained  for  her  work  and  for  the  people 
who  worked  with  her  her  former  view-point,  which 
was  the  larger  one  of  the  outsider.  But  of  late  she 
was  conscious  that  there  had  been  a  subtle  but  ever 
constant  change,  and  that  more  and  more  she  now 
thought  and  talked  in  the  terms  of  the  theatre.  Now 
she  no  longer  read  theatrical  newspapers  with  the 

8 


HER    OWN    SORT 

single  purpose  of  finding  opportunities  for  bettering 
her  position,  but  because  the  news  and  even  the  gossip 
of  her  fellow  actors  interested  and  amused  her.  By 
degrees  their  narrow  world  had  become  her  world. 
The  key  to  the  door  that  led  to  the  big  outside  world 
she  still  clutched  tightly  in  her  hand,  but  of  late 
there  had  been  moments  when  she  felt  that  even  this 
was  slipping  from  her  grasp.  The  men  of  her  pro- 
fession with  their  pompous,  unnatural  manners,  and 
the  women  with  their  petty  jealousies  and  their 
ceaseless  scandal,  she  gradually  came  to  accept  at 
their  own  inflated  value.  In  considerably  less  than 
a  year  her  transition  to  Broadway  had  become  com- 
plete and  its  people  had  become  her  people. 

It  was-  at  a  supper-party  of  theatrical  folk  in  the 
early  spring  that  she  met  the  manager  of  one  of 
the  big  moving-picture  concerns.  Attracted  by 
Natalie's  beauty  and  the  look  of  aristocratic  breed- 
ing that  showed  in  every  feature  of  her  face  and 
every  line  of  her  slight,  lithe  body,  he  offered  her  a 
position  in  his  regular  stock  company,  and  she 
accepted  the  offer.  For  a  few  weeks,  twice  a  day, 
Natalie  made  the  long,  tedious  trip  between  town  and 
the  studios  of  the  Globe  Film  Company  at  Sheeps- 
head  Bay,  but  at  last  the  effort  became  too  strenuous 

9 


HER    OWN    SORT 

and  she  moved  her  few  belongings  to  Sheepshead 
village.  Here,  in  comparative  comfort,  she  settled 
in  a  big,  airy  room  in  Mrs.  Cragin's  boarding-house, 
where  all  of  the  other  guests  were  actors  and  actresses 
employed  by  the  same  company  with  which  Natalie 
had  cast  her  fortunes.  Therefore,  in  her  hours  of 
ease  as  well  as  those  of  work  she  found  herself  con- 
stantly in  the  company  of  her  fellow  players.  It 
was  a  small  world  complete  in  itself,  and  served  to 
sever  the  last  link  that  had  connected  her  with  her 
former  life  of  luxurious  ease.  Now  she  worked  from 
nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  until  late  in  the  afternoon 
and  often  far  into  the  night.  But  if  her  hours  of 
work  were  long  and  arduous,  they  were  rewarded 
with  a  prompt  success.  Her  lovely  features  and  the 
supple  grace  of  her  movements  seemed  peculiarly 
adapted  to  motion  pictures,  and  in  a  brief  space  of 
time  she  was  playing  fairly  important  parts  and  her 
position  with  the  company  was  assured. 

Among  the  actors  who  lived  in  Mrs.  Cragin's 
boarding-house  with  Natalie  was  Hugh  Kimball,  the 
leading  man  of  the  Globe  Film  Company.  He  was 
a  good-looking  young  man  in  the  early  thirties,  but 
in  spite  of  his  youth  had  spent  many  years  in  stock 
companies  and  was  not  unknown  to  the  audiences 

10 


HER    OWN    SORT 

of  Broadway.  In  the  world  of  moving  pictures  he 
was  already  one  of  its  best-known  and  most  brilliant 
ornaments.  His  name  had  been  persistently  adver- 
tised throughout  the  broad  land  and  his  good-looking, 
clean-cut  features  were  known  to  every  girl  and  every 
woman  in  every  town  that  boasted  of  a  moving- 
picture  theatre  from  Maine  to  Texas.  By  the  small 
army  employed  by  the  Globe  Company  he  was  petted 
and  spoiled  and  regarded  as  something  a  little  better 
than  other  humans,  and  at  the  boarding-house  which 
he  honored  with  his  presence  he  was  easily  the  star 
guest.  He  enjoyed  the  luxury  of  an  entire  suite  of 
rooms,  and  in  his  spacious  parlor  he  frequently  gave 
parties  to  the  other  boarders  and  to  the  many  mov- 
ing-picture actors  and  actresses  who  lived  in  the 
neighborhood.  Hugh  Kimball  was  indeed  a  king 
among  his  fellows,  and  so  often  had  he  been  assured 
of  this  fact  that  any  early  suspicion  he  may  have 
had  as  to  its  truth  had  long  since  developed  into  a 
certainty.  His  pride  and  vanity  showed  in  his  eyes, 
in  the  way  he  carried  his  chin  and  shoulders,  and 
whether  he  wore  doublet  and  hose  or  evening  clothes 
or  a  fur  overcoat  he  always  moved  as  if  clad  in  the 
armor  of  a  gallant  knight.  Until  Natalie  Eyre 
joined  the  forces  of  which  he  was  the  leading  spirit, 

11 


HER    OWN    SORT 

he  had  politely  but  firmly  refused  the  more  or  less 
flagrant  advances  of  most  of  the  ladies  and  had 
treated  them  all  with  chilling  civility.  But  from  the 
moment  that  he  first  saw  Natalie  Eyre  he  seemed  to 
find  something  about  her  not  possessed  by  the  others, 
and  it  was  but  natural  that  the  attention  of  Kimball 
should  cause  Natalie  no  small  amount  of  satisfaction 
and  pleasure.  During  the  long  spaces  of  time  when 
they  were  waiting  for  their  "scenes"  at  the  studios, 
it  flattered  her  to  be  seen  so  constantly  in  the  com- 
pany of  the  great  Kimball,  the  admired  of  all  women. 
At  the  boarding-house  he  was  equally  attentive,  and 
on  warm  spring  evenings  he  frequently  asked  her  to 
dine  with  him  at  one  of  the  many  restaurants  or  road- 
houses  in  the  neighborhood.  If  on  such  occasions  the 
good-looking  actor  talked  a  great  deal  of  his  suc- 
cesses on  the  stage  and  off  of  it,  if  he  spoke  with 
confidence  of  the  triumphs  that  awaited  him,  it  was 
at  least  a  language  with  which  during  the  past  year 
Natalie  had  become  entirely  familiar.  When,  with 
a  certain  ring  of  awe  in  his  voice,  Kimball  referred 
to  his  exalted  position,  Natalie  was  pleased  to  regard 
him  from  his  own  view-point,  and  whenever  he  left 
a  restaurant  without  being  recognized  by  the  other 

12 


HER    OWN    SORT 

guests  and  complained  in  peevish  tones  at  the  over- 
sight, she  was  quite  sincere  in  her  sympathy. 

One  Saturday  afternoon,  when  Natalie  happened 
to  be  free,  she  went  to  New  York  to  do  some  shop- 
ping, and  outside  of  a  Broadway  theatre  saw  the 
advertisement  of  a  moving  picture  in  which  she  had 
appeared.  From  pure  curiosity,  she  entered  the 
theatre  and  took  a  seat  at  the  back  of  the  darkened, 
half-filled  auditorium.  The  film  which  she  had  come 
to  see  was  already  being  shown  on  the  screen  and  for 
some  moments  she  sat  smiling  at  a  love  scene  between 
herself  and  Hugh  Kimball.  And  then,  she  suddenly 
became  conscious  of  the  fact  that  the  two  girls  sit- 
ting directly  in  front  of  her  were  talking  about  herself 
and  the  popular  leading  man. 

"They  say  he's  crazy  about  her,"  one  of  the  girls 
whispered.  "It  certainly  looks  like  it  when  you  see 
the  way  he  grabs  her  in  the  picture,  doesn't  it?" 

"It  sure  does,"  the  friend  giggled  audibly.  "I 
wish  7  had  her  job." 

"No  chance,"  sneered  the  first  gossip.  "I  know 
a  girl  who  has  an  aunt  down  at  Sheepshead,  and 
she  says  he  never  lets  her  out  of  his  sight,  day  or 
night.  They  both  live  at  the  same  boarding-house. 

13 


HER    OWN    SORT 

Pretty  soft  for  Hughie,  eh?"  And  at  this  witticism, 
both  girls  giggled  long  and  loudly. 

Natalie  felt  that  her  face  had  suddenly  turned 
scarlet,  and  she  half  rose,  but,  remembering  that  no 
one  could  see  her  in  the  darkness,  she  once  more 
settled  back  in  her  seat.  The  resentment  that  she 
had  at  first  felt  toward  the  girl  who  had  told  the 
scandal  vanished  as  quickly  as  it  had  come,  and  a 
few  minutes  later,  the  thought  that  Kimball's  de- 
votion to  her  was  public  property  even  brought  a 
smile  to  her  pretty  lips.  The  sudden  blush  of  shame 
was  but  an  inheritance  from  her  former  self,  and  after 
all  was  but  purely  physical.  She  watched  the  film 
to  the  last  picture,  when  Kimball  and  she  were  shown 
in  a  passionate  embrace.  Then,  with  the  memory  of 
the  picture  still  filling  her  mind,  she  went  out  into 
the  sunshine  of  Broadway. 

"Marloe's  Mummy"  was  the  name  of  the  play  in 
which  Natalie  had,  so  far  in  her  career,  made  her 
most  ambitious  effort.  The  plot  of  the  comedy  was 
the  old  one  of  the  mummy  who  is  bought  in  Egypt, 
shipped  to  America,  and,  by  the  transfusion  of  a 
magical  elixir,  eventually  brought  to  life.  Natalie 
played  the  mummy  which  in  its  former  life  had  been 
a  true  princess  royal  of  the  Nile,  and  Hugh  Kimball 

14 


HER    OWN    SORT 

was  the  millionnaire  who  had  purchased  her  in  her 
mummy  clothes,  and  eventually,  having  married  her, 
installed  her  as  the  chatelaine  of  his  Fifth  Avenue 
home  as  well  as  his  summer  palace  at  Newport. 
Throughout  the  long  hot  days  of  August  Natalie, 
dressed  in  the  filmy,  diaphanous  robes  of  the  princess, 
and  Kimball  and  the  others,  clad  in  modern  clothes, 
had  played  the  scenes  that  were  supposed  to  take 
place  in  and  about  New  York.  The  heavier  part 
of  the  work  was  over  and  one  day  at  Newport  would 
be  all  that  was  necessary  to  complete  the  remaining 
scenes.  Abe  Feldman,  the  business  manager,  had 
gone  on  in  advance,  and  on  the  last  day  of  August 
he  wired  that  he  had  secured  permission  to  use  the 
grounds  of  one  of  Newport's  finest  estates  and  that 
the  company  and  camera  men  should  leave  New  York 
that  same  night  by  the  Fall  River  boat. 

It  was  a  brilliant  moonlight  night,  and  when  they 
had  finished  their  dinner  Natalie  and  Kimball  sought 
a  secluded  spot  on  the  upper  deck  where  undisturbed 
they  could  whisper  their  confidences  and  enjoy  the 
glories  of  the  perfect  night.  For  a  long  time  they 
sat  in  silence,  while  Kimball  smoked  innumerable 
cigarettes  and  Natalie  looked  out  on  the  placid  waters 
and  the  distant  rim  of  shore  bathed  in  the  soft  white 

15 


HER    OWN    SORT 

light  of  the  silver  moon.  They  were  sitting  very 
close  together,  shut  off  from  the  sight  of  prying  eyes 
by  a  huge  life-boat,  and  so,  when  Kimball  put  out 
his  hand  and  laid  it  on  Natalie's  and  gently  pressed 
it,  the  girl  made  no  sign  of  resentment.  During  the 
past  few  months  Kimball  had  played  many  love 
scenes  with  Natalie  in  which  he  had  embraced  and 
kissed  her  with  all  the  outward  signs  of  a  true  lover's 
passion.  But  then  they  had  been  in  the  open  sunlight, 
or  in  the  studios  under  the  blazing  glare  of  hundreds 
of  electric  lights,  with  a  camera  clicking  in  their 
faces  and  a  director  shouting  his  orders  to  them 
through  a  megaphone.  Now  it  was  all  quite  differ- 
ent. The  two  young  people  were  alone  in  the  moon- 
light, and  Hugh  Kimball  was  just  a  man  and  Natalie 
Eyre  a  woman,  and  the  touch  of  his  hand  thrilled 
her  as  no  kiss  of  the  stage  had  ever  thrilled  her.  For 
a  brief  moment  she  turned  her  eyes  to  his,  and  in 
return  he  smiled  a  smile  of  happy,  boyish  content 
and  once  more  pressed  her  soft,  delicate  hand. 

When  he  spoke,  it  was  quite  evident  from  the  very 
first  sentence  that  he  had  much  to  say  and  that  his 
opening  remarks  would  be  only  as  a  preamble  to  the 
matter  of  real  import  to  which  he  was  to  refer  later 
on. 

16 


HER    OWN    SORT 

"In  the  first  place,"  he  began,  "I  want  to  tell 
you  something  of  my  people.  We  came  not  far  from 
the  very  town  where  we  are  going  now — Newport. 
But  of  course  we  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  gay 
life  of  that  resort  of  fashion.  We  were  just  simple 
Rhode  Island  farmer  folk — honest  but  plain.  My 
people  still  live  on  the  farm  where  I  was  born,  and 
during  my  vacations  I  often  go  back  to  see  the  old 
folks  and  do  my  best  to  brighten  up  their  declining 
years.  You  might  think  that  I  would  prefer  the 
gayer  summer  resorts  where  I  would  be  well  known 
and — and  perhaps  made  much  of  and  sought  after." 

From  the  depths  of  her  low  chair  Natalie  looked 
steadily  at  the  cameo  profile  of  the  popular  leading 
man,  and  her  lips  wavered  into  a  whimsical  little 
smile.  What  if  he  were  vain,  she  argued,  it  was, 
after  all,  only  the  vanity  of  a  spoiled  child.  There 
was  so  much  to  like  and  admire  about  Kimball,  and 
she  could  never  quite  free  her  mind  from  the  truly 
feminine  thought  that  he  was  so  greatly  loved  by 
so  many  women.  The  woman  who  married  Hugh 
Kimball  and  who  could  hold  his  love  would  indeed 
be  one  to  be  envied.  As  far  back  as  she  could  re- 
member, Natalie  had  always  rejoiced  in  doing  the 
thing  that  was  least  expected  of  her.  To  refuse  Alan 

17 


HER    OWN    SORT 

Godfrey  and  his  millions  had  caused  her  a  certain 
satisfaction  if  only  because  it  had  astonished  her 
friends,  and  to  marry  a  moving-picture  actor  she 
knew  would  cause  them  even  greater  astonishment, 
and  she  smiled  pleasantly  at  the  prospect.  And  then, 
she  became  conscious  that  Kimball  was  still  telling 
her  of  his  early  struggles,  and  the  thought  occurred 
to  her  that  when  Hugh  talked  about  himself  it  was 
always  in  the  manner  of  a  toast-master  at  a  banquet 
enumerating  the  virtues  of  the  distinguished  guest 
of  the  evening.  But  Natalie  had  come  to  love  the 
very  naivete  of  the  man,  and  long  since  she  had 
convinced  herself  that  beneath  his  braggadocio  there 
were  concealed  the  heart  and  soul  of  a  real  man  and 
a  true  lover. 

"As  to  your  family,"  she  heard  him  saying — "as 
to  your  past,  I  know  nothing  and  I  ask  to  know 
nothing.  I  am  satisfied  to  take  you  as  you  are.  To 
me  the  day  of  your  birth  will  always  be  the  day  I 
first  saw  you.  All  I  ask  of  you,  Natalie,  is  your 
love  and  your  life.'* 

She  felt  his  strong  arm  about  her  drawing  her 
slight  body  closely  to  him.  Unresisting  her  lips  met 
his,  and,  as  he  gently  released  her,  she  heard  him 
whisper:  "That  is  your  promise,  Natalie?" 

18 


H  E  R    O  W  N    SORT 

"Why,  jes,  Hugh,"  she  said;  "of  course,  that  is 
my  promise." 

Abe  Feldman  was  waiting  for  the  company  at  the 
Newport  pier,  and  although  it  was  extremely  early 
in  the  morning  his  enthusiasm  over  the  success  of  his 
own  efforts  was  very  great.  When  they  were  all 
crowded  into  a  large  'bus  and  were  on  the  way  to 
the  hotel,  he  told  them  that  he  had  not  only  secured 
the  use  of  the  lawns  and  gardens  of  one  of  the  very 
finest  places  on  the  Ocean  Drive,  but  that  the  gra- 
cious lady  owner,  who  happened  to  be  giving  a  large 
luncheon  party  that  afternoon,  had  promised  to  use 
her  best  efforts  to  induce  her  guests  to  appear  as 
supers  in  .the  pictures. 

"It's  a  great  ad  for  the  Globe  Company,"  he  said, 
beaming  on  the  actors,  "and  a  great  chance  for  you 
all  to  break  into  swell  society.  We'll  get  a  close 
slant  at  them,  anyhow,  and  see  what  they're  like  on 
their  own  feeding- grounds." 

Of  all  of  this  Natalie  heard  but  little.  Through 
the  windows  of  the  barge  she  was  looking  out  on 
the  narrow,  sunlit  streets  and  the  landmarks  which 
had  once  been  so  familiar  to  her.  Of  the  hotel  where 
Feldman  had  said  they  were  to  stay,  she  had  never 

19 


HER    OWN    SORT 

even  heard  the  name.  She  was  entering  a  village 
which  a  year  before  had  been  as  her  own  home,  but 
now  she  came  by  a  new  road  and  as  a  stranger,  and, 
in  the  new  order  of  things,  she  knew  that  after  a 
brief  glimpse  of  its  glories  as  a  stranger  she  would 
leave  it.  For  the  first  time  in  many  months,  she 
realized  how  completely  she  had  submerged  herself 
in  her  new  life  and  how  thoroughly  she  had  shut  her- 
self off  from  her  old  friends  and  the  world  in  which 
they  moved.  Her  world  was  now  the  studios  of  the 
film  company  that  employed  her  and  Mrs.  Cragin's 
boarding-house  at  Sheepshead  Bay.  Her  friends 
were  now  the  tired,  travel-worn,  perspiring  men  and 
women  who  crowded  the  omnibus  and  who  with  but 
a  mild  show  of  interest  were  listening  to  Abe  Feld- 
man  tell  of  his  experiences  with  what  he  was  pleased 
to  designate  the  "nobs  of  Newport." 

To  Natalie  the  words  of  the  excited  Feldman  at 
last  took  form,  and,  but  half  understanding,  she 
smiled  at  the  fat,  shining  face  of  the  manager  and 
asked : 

"Who  is  it  that  owns  these  wonderful  grounds 
where  we  are  to  play?" 

"Mrs.  Alexander  Goddard's  her  name,"  the  mana- 
ger said,  "and  believe  me,  she's  some  swell — one  of  the 

20 


HER    OWN    SORT 

kind  you  read  about  in  the  papers.  You  know,  the 
sort  that  has  grand  op'ry  stars  after  dinner  to  sing 
swell  ballads  at  a  thousand  a  throw,  and  invites  live 
monkeys  in  to  lunch  to  entertain  her  guests." 

Hugh  Kimball  majestically  folded  his  arms  and 
sniffed  audibly. 

"And  being  out  of  monkeys  just  now,"  he  hurled 
at  the  well-meaning  Feldman,  "I  suppose  she's  willing 
to  let  us  act  out  on  her  lawn  to  amuse  her  friends. 
I  wonder  if  they'll  feed  us  peanuts  ?" 

Huddled  in  the  corner  of  the  rumbling  omnibus, 
Natalie,  her  face  flushed,  her  hands  clasped  tightly 
before  her  in  her  lap,  with  wide-open,  unseeing  eyes 
stared  straight  before  her.  For  some  reason  it  had 
never  occurred  to  her  that,  so  long  as  she  purposely 
kept  out  of  their  way,  that  there  was  the  most  remote 
chance  of  being  brought  into  immediate  contact  with, 
or  even  of  seeing,  any  of  her  former  friends.  She 
had  come  to  Newport  as  a  moving-picture  actress 
just  as  she  had  gone  to  many  other  towns  where 
she  knew  no  one  and  was  herself  unknown.  But  now 
it  seemed  that  the  stage  chosen  for  her  work  was  to 
be  the  home  of  a  very  old  and  a  very  dear  friend, 
where,  almost  as  a  daughter  of  the  house,  she  had 
lived  for  many  months  at  a  time.  And  if  what  Feld- 

21 


HER    OWN    SORT 

man  had  said  was  true,  she  would  not  only  meet  Mrs. 
Goddard  again  but  Mrs.  Goddard's  friends,  who 
would  be  sure  to  be  her  friends,  too.  Her  unhappy, 
distressed  mind  was  suddenly  filled  with  a  picture  of 
herself  in  the  bespangled,  transparent  robes  of  the 
Princess  of  the  Nile  wandering  about  and  being  made 
to  perform  foolish  antics  on  the  sunlit  lawn.  With 
a  slight  shudder,  the  girl  instinctively  raised  her 
hands  and  pressed  them  against  her  eyes  as  if  to 
shut  out  the  miserable  scene.  During  the  long  morn- 
ing hours  that  followed,  shut  up  in  her  room  at  the 
hotel,  her  confused  brain  conjured  up  many  schemes 
whereby  this  impossible  situation  might  be  averted. 
If  she  refused  to  act,  she  would  have  to  resign  or 
be  discharged  from  the  company  which  had  always 
treated  her  with  consideration  and  with  whom  she 
had  won  an  assured  and  profitable  position.  And, 
in  addition  to  this,  her  promise  to  Kimball  of  the 
night  previous  made  it  almost  imperative  that  she 
continue  her  present  work.  To  falter  now  would  be 
to  turn  her  back  on  the  road  she  had  voluntarily 
chosen  to  follow.  It  would  not  be  playing  the  game, 
and  it  had  long  been  one  of  Natalie's  boasts  that  she 
always  played  the  game. 

When  Abe  Feldman  and  his  company  arrived  at 
22 


their  destination,  Mrs.  Goddard  and  her  guests  were 
still  at  luncheon,  and  therefore,  while  the  manager 
and  his  camera  men  arranged  the  preliminaries,  the 
actors  and  actresses  gathered  in  groups  on  the  broad 
porches  of  the  house.  Somewhat  surprised  but 
promptly  acceding  to  Natalie's  request,  Kimball  had 
left  her  to  join  the  others,  and  when  she  was  alone 
she  dropped  into  a  low  wicker  chair  and,  for  some 
time,  looked  out  on  the  velvety  lawn,  and  now  and 
again  cast  furtive  glances  at  her  fellow  players. 
Their  faces  were  made  up,  but  they  wore  modern 
clothes,  as  the  play  demanded  they  should.  Natalie 
had  seen  these  same  clothes  many  times  before  at  the 
studios  and  there  they  had  seemed  appropriate 
enough,  but  now  on  Mrs.  Goddard's  porch  they  ap- 
peared wholly  out  of  place  and  rather  absurd.  In 
the  brilliant  sunshine  the  dresses  of  the  women  looked 
cheap  and  tawdry  and  the  men's  clothes  frayed, 
baggy  at  the  knees  and  shiny  at  the  elbows.  Even 
the  tweed  morning  suit  that  Hugh  Kimball  wore, 
with  its  padded  shoulders  and  narrow  waist,  appealed 
to  Natalie's  now  sceptical  sight  as  looking  rather 
like  an  advertisement  for  men's  ready-made  clothing. 
The  heavily  beaded  eyelashes  of  the  women  and  the 
rouge  on  their  cheeks,  and  the  smooth  pink-and-white 

23 


HER    OWN    SORT 

make-ups  of  the  men,  made  them  all  look  rather  in- 
human and  almost  uncanny  in  the  broad  light  of  day. 
Of  all  the  company  Natalie  was  the  only  one  who 
appeared  in  costume,  and,  with  a  slight  shiver  of  dis- 
may, she  pulled  the  long  coat  she  wore  more  tightly 
about  her  filmy  draperies.  And  then,  from  the  house 
she  heard  a  confusion  of  sounds  of  talking  and 
laughter,  and  she  saw  Mrs.  Goddard,  followed  by  her 
guests,  come  out  on  the  porch.  In  a  moment  Natalie 
was  on  her  feet  and  moving  swiftly  toward  her  former 
friend.  With  a  little  cry  of  surprise  the  elder  woman 
held  out  her  arms  and  fairly  smothered  Natalie  in 
her  embrace. 

"My  dear  child,"  she  cried,  "what  are  you  doing 
here  with  your  pretty  face  all  made  up,  and  what 
have  you  got  under  that  heavy  coat  this  broiling 
day?  What  do  you  mean  by  not  letting  me  know 
you  were  in  town,  and  why  didn't  you  come  in  to 
lunch?" 

"I  couldn't,"  Natalie  laughed.  "I'm  a  working- 
girl  now — a  queen  of  the  movies."  All  she  said  after 
this  was  lost  in  a  chorus  of  noisy  exclamations,  and 
she  found  herself  in  the  centre  of  a  circle  of  Mrs. 
Goddard's  excited,  eager  guests  and  violently  shak- 
ing hands  with  Alan  Godfrey.  After  Godfrey  had 

24 


HER    OWN    SORT 

been  induced  by  the  others  to  give  up  Natalie's  hands, 
she  became  the  recipient  of  a  greeting  the  warmth  of 
which  fell  little  short  of  an  ovation.  Old  ladies  em- 
braced her  tenderly,  young  girls  of  her  own  age 
kissed  her  enthusiastically  on  both  of  her  rouged 
cheeks,  and  men,  young  and  old,  wrung  her  soft, 
pretty  hands  until  they  fairly  ached.  Perhaps  it  was 
on  account  of  her  aching  hands  or  perhaps  it  was 
from  some  other  cause,  but  when  the  excitement  of 
the  first  greetings  was  over  there  were  tears  in  Nat- 
alie's eyes,  tears  that  could  not  be  restrained;  and 
therefore  she  put  her  arms  about  Mrs.  Goddard  and 
laid  her  head  on  the  ample  bosom  of  her  old  friend 
and  in  a  low,  husky  voice  whispered:  "I  never  knew 
you  all  cared  so  much.  Why  didn't  somebody  tell 
me?" . 

Mrs.  Goddard  smoothed  the  soft  hair  of  the  head 
lying  on  her  breast  and  said:  "Because,  you  little 
fool,  you  would  be  a  working-girl  and  you  refused 
to  give  any  of  us  the  chance  to  tell  you  anytlung. 
Now  that  we've  found  you  again,  I  hope  you'll  be 
good." 

When  Natalie  raised  her  head  and,  looking  about 
her,  smiled,  through  her  glistening  eyes  she  caught 
sight  of  the  moon  face  and  the  rotund  figure  of  Abe 

25 


HER    OWN    SORT 

Feldman,  who  by  slow  and  easy  stages  had  ap- 
proached within  a  few  feet  of  the  charmed  circle. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Goddard,"  Natalie  said,  "I  want  to 
present  Mr.  Feldman  to  you.  Mr.  Feldman  is  our 
manager." 

The  little  man  doubled  up  in  a  bow  so  low  that 
his  shining,  perspiring,  bald  head  almost  touched  his 
massive  watch-chain.  In  turn  he  was  presented  by 
Mrs.  Goddard  to  her  guests,  who  with  great  enthu- 
siasm accepted  his  invitation  to  join  his  company 
and,  for  a  few  brief  hours,  to  perform  the  work  of 
"extra"  people  in  the  moving-picture  drama  of 
"Marloe's  Mummy." 

Throughout  the  long,  hot  afternoon  the  cameras 
continued  to  click  off  thousands  of  feet  of  films  that 
were  destined  to  make  Natalie  Eyre  and  Hugh  Kim- 
ball  famous  and  Mrs.  Goddard  and  Mrs.  Goddard's 
friends,  if  not  famous,  at  least  better  known  through- 
out the  broad  land.  The  embarrassment  which  Nata- 
lie had  at  first  felt  in  the  situation  was  quickly  for- 
gotten in  her  work,  and  in  the  enthusiasm  with  which 
her  old  friends  entered  into  the  execution  of  what 
appealed  to  them  as  a  novel  and  amusing  experience. 

The  day's  work  was  nearly  over  and  the  oak-trees 
were  casting  giant  shadows  on  the  lawn,  when  the 

26 


Throughout  the  long,  hot  afternoon  the  cameras  continued 
to  click  off  thousands  of  feet  of  films. 


unhappy  incident  occurred.  Natalie  and  Kimball 
had  the  green  bit  of  lawn  which  served  as  the  stage 
to  themselves  and  were  in  the  middle  of  a  very  serious 
and  passionate  love  scene  when  something  went  wrong 
with  the  camera.  The  scene  came  to  an  abrupt  end, 
and  Natalie  turned  to  speak  to  her  friends  who  were 
standing  in  a  group  at  the  side  of  the  sylvan  stage. 
Caught  unaware,  she  saw  by  their  faces  and  their 
manner  that,  instead  of  being  seriously  interested, 
they  were  laughing  at  and  quietly  guying  the  heroic 
efforts  of  Kimball  to  make  love  as  love  is  supposed 
to  be  made  by  an  American  gentleman  and  a  New- 
port millionnaire.  Confused  and  blushing  scarlet 
under  her  rouge,  Natalie  cast  a  hurried  glance  at 
Kimball,  and  seeing  him  still  staring  at  the  broken 
camera,  found  some  consolation  in  the  thought  that 
he  too  had  not  seen  the  smiles  of  ridicule  on  the  faces 
of  her  old  friend's  guests. 

A  little  later  on,  when  the  last  scene  had  been  taken 
and  the  film  of  "Marloe's  Mummy'*  was  an  accom- 
plished fact,  Abe  Feldman  and  his  company  of  players 
gladly  accepted  Mrs.  Gcddard's  invitation  to  stay 
for  tea  with  her.  While  the  tired  but  contented 
actors  gathered  about  the  pretty  tables  on  the 
porches,  Hugh  Kimball  saw  a  young  man  speak  to 

27 


HER    OWN    SORT 

Natalie  and  then  from  the  corner  of  his  eye  watched 
them  stroll  slowly  across  the  lawn  in  the  direction  of 
the  terrace  that  overlooked  the  sea. 

When  Natalie  and  Alan  Godfrey  had  reached  the 
terrace,  they  sat  down  in  the  same  two  wicker  chairs 
which  they  had  occupied  on  a  very  momentous 
occasion  just  about  one  year  before. 

"Same  two  old  chairs,  same  girl,"  Godfrey  said, 
and  laughed  a  rather  mirthless  sort  of  laugh. 

Natalie  drew  her  coat  tightly  over  the  spangled 
bloomers  of  the  Princess  of  the  Nile,  and  her  rouged, 
scarlet  lips  wavered  into  a  brilliant,  dazzling  smile. 
Whatever  may  have  been  in  the  girl's  heart,  it  was 
her  great  wish  to  have  this  talk  with  Godfrey  as 
cheerful  as  possible. 

"Same  chairs,"  she  laughed,  "but  not  quite  the 
same  girl." 

"But  you've  succeeded,  haven't  you?"  Godfrey 
asked. 

Natalie  nodded.  "Yes,  I  suppose  so.  I  make  my 
own  living  and  a  pretty  good  living  at  that.  But 
I'm  sorry  I  came  back  here  to-day." 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  except  it  was  rather  like  the 
return  of  the  prodigal  daughter.  The  fatted  calf 

28 


sort  of  choked  me  and  made  me  cry.  And,  then,  of 
course,  everything  about  the  place  reminds  me  of 
a  lot  of  things  I  haven't  got  any  more  and,  until 
to-day,  that  I  hadn't  really  missed." 

"True  friends,  perhaps?"  Godfrey  suggested. 

But  Natalie  refused  to  be  serious. 

"No,"  she  said;  "the  true- friends  idea  didn't 
appeal  to  me  so  much  as  a  great  longing  I  had  for 
a  plunge  into  the  surf  at  Bailey's  Beach.  And  then, 
all  of  the  time  I  was  acting  out  there  on  the  lawn  my 
mind  was  really  on  the  golf-links.  I  was  thinking 
what  fun  it  would  be  to-  be  standing  on  a  nice  flat 
tee  with  a  little  white  ball  at  my  feet  and  a  good 
whippy  driver  in  my  hands  and  the  fair*  green  stretch- 
ing out  before  me.  And  then  a  sweet  stroke,  a  swish, 
and  the  ball  flying  straight  and  true  and  leaping 
in  great  bounds  over  the  smooth  turf,  missing  the 
traps  and  skimming  the  bunkers  and—  Oh !  I  don't 
know,  but  it  was  a  rather  pleasant  dream." 

"You're  not  much  in  the  open?" 

Natalie  shook  her  head.  "No,  not  very  much. 
Sometimes  we  work  out-of-doors  but  most  of  our 
scenes  are  in  the  studios,  and  believe  me,  the  heat  of 
the  lights  is  awful.  What  have  you  been  doing,  Alan, 
all, this  long  year?" 

29 


HER    OWN    SORT 

With  a  sudden  look  of  surprise  Godfrey  stared 
steadily  at  Natalie  until  the  girl's  eyes,  tired  after 
her  long  afternoon's  work,  faltered  and  turned 
toward  the  open  sea. 

"Why,  you  know,  Natalie,  dear,*'  he  said.  "Of 
course  you  must  know  that  I  have  been  doing  just 
what  I  did  the  year  before  and  the  year  before  that, 
and  ever  since  I  have  known  you.  There  is  only  one 
real  thing  in  my  life — and  I  suppose  always  will  be 
— my  love  for  you.  Even  if  you  wouldn't  let  me  see 
you  all  of  this  time  and  hid  yourself  from  me,  I 
knew  that  you  knew  that  I  was  waiting.  Surely  you 
understood,  Natalie?" 

The  girl  glanced  up  at  Godfrey  and  then  toward 
the  sea  and  then  back  to  Godfrey's  searching  eyes. 

"Why,  yes,  Alan,"  she  said,  "in  a  way  I  under- 
stood. But,  you  see,  I  have  been  working  so  hard, 
and  in  my  work  I  found  other  interests  and — and 
other  friends." 

Natalie's  hand  was  lying  on  the  arm  of  her  chair 
and  Godfrey  suddenly  put  out  his  own  hand  and 
took  that  of  the  girl  in  a  firm  grasp. 

"You  mean  that  there  is  some  one  else?"  he  asked. 

Through  misty  eyes  Natalie  looked  into  the  fright- 
ened eyes  of  Godfrey. 

30 


"Yes,  Alan,'*  she  whispered,  "there  is  some  one 
else." 

She  drew  the  lapels  of  her  coat  more  closely  over 
her  breast,  and  then,  after  a  few  moments  of  silence, 
wearily  pulled  herself  to  her  feet. 

"It's  getting  rather  cold,"  she  said,  "and  I'm  afraid 
the  others  will  be  going  back  to  the  hotel.  You  know 
we  return  to  New  York  to-night  by  the  boat.  Be  a 
good  boy,  Alan,  and  take  me  back  to  the  house  with 
you  now,  won't  you?" 

After  Natalie  had  returned  to  the  hotel  she  went 
to  her  room,  so  that  she  might  be  alone  until  supper- 
time,  when  it  would  be  necessary  for  her  to  meet 
Kimball  and  the  others.  The  events  of  the  day  had 
upset  her  greatly  and  she  was  tired  and  nervous  and 
on  the  verge  of  breaking  down  and  crying.  Try  as 
she  might,  she  could  not  forget  the  look  in  Alan 
Godfrey's  eyes,  and  she  could  not  forget  the  scene 
when  the  camera  had  broken  down  and  she  had  caught 
the  crowd  laughing  at  and  silently  guying  Hugh 
Kimball,  the  king  of  the  moving-picture  world  and 
the  man  she  had  promised  to  marry.  For  some  time 
she  lay  on  the  bed  in  the  little  hotel  room  staring 
wide-eyed  at  the  whitewashed  walls;  and  then  some 

31 


HER    OWN    SORT 

one  knocked  and,  going  to  the  door,  she  found  Kim- 
ball  waiting  to  be  admitted. 

"Just  a  few  words,"  he  said,  and,  without  waiting 
for  Natalie's  consent,  came  into  the  room  and  closed 
the  door  behind  him. 

Natalie  offered  him  a  chair,  but  Kimball  refused, 
and,  going  over  to  the  fireplace,  took  his  stand  before 
the  empty  grate  and  slowly  clasped  his  hands  behind 
his  back. 

"I  have  been  taking  a  walk,"  he  began,  "and — and 
thinking.  It  occurred  to  me  that  unless  there  should 
have  to  be  some  re-takes  'Marloe's  Mummy'  is  fin- 
ished— that  is,  so  far  as  you  and  I  are  concerned. 
And  then  it  struck  me  how  much  better  it  would  be 
for  you,  and  for  me,  too,  if  you  did  not  return  to 
New  York  to-night  but  remained  on  here  with  your 
friends." 

Natalie  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  her 
elbows  resting  on  her  knees,  her  chin  cupped  in  her 
palms,  and  her  eyes  fixed  steadily  on  Kimball. 

"I  don't  think  I  understand  you,  Hugh,"  she  said. 
"Why  shouldn't  I  go  back  with  you?  Have  you 
forgotten  that  we  were  to  have  another  long  evening 
together  on  the  boat  in  the  same  little  hiding-place 
that  we  discovered  last  night?" 

32 


HER    OWN    SORT 

"No,  Natalie,"  he  said,  "I  hadn't  forgotten  that." 
For  a  few  moments  he  hesitated,  and  during  this 
brief  interval  of  silence  Natalie  noticed  the  curious 
change  that  had  taken  place  in  the  man's  manner 
and  in  the  way  he  carried  himself.  There  was  no 
longer  the  strut  or  the  old  air  of  braggadocio  about 
him,  and  in  all  ways  he  seemed  so  much  more  simple 
and  human. 

"Last  night,"  he  went  on,  "I  said  that  I  wanted 
to  marry  you  just  because  you  were  you  and  I  said 
that  I  didn't  care  to  know  anything  of  your  past. 
Of  course,  that  was  very  foolish  of  me,  but  I  didn't 
know  how  foolish  it  was  until  I  learned  something  of 
your  past  to-day.  I  envy  you  such — such  pleasant 
and  prosperous  friends." 

"What  difference  does  it  make,"  Natalie  asked, 
"who  my.  friends  happen  to  be,  so  long  as  we  care  for 
each  other?" 

Kimball  shook  his  head  and  forced  a  mirthless 
smile  to  his  parched  lips. 

"It  will  seem  very  strange,"  he  said,  "to  go  back 
to  Sheepshead  Bay  and  to  Mrs.  Cragin's  without 
you.  I  don't  think  I  ever  told  you  that  just  before 
you  came  to  live  there  that  I  was  going  to  move 
away.  Well,  I  was.  I  hated  the  place  then.  But 

33 


HER    OWN    SORT 

after  you  came  everything  was  quite  different.  In 
what  to  me  before  had  been  a  God-forsaken,  cast-off 
racing-town  I  found  a  quaint,  deserted  village.  I 
forgot  the  forlorn  cottages  and  the  neglected  gardens 
and  saw  only  the  flowers  that  still  pushed  their  way 
through  the  weeds.  Pleasant  evenings  those,  Natalie, 
when  we  walked  down  by  the  sea  and  had  our  little 
dinners  together  at  the  corner  table  at  Kettler's. 
Do  you " 

"Hugh,  dear,"  Natalie  interrupted  him,  "I  don't 
understand  you  at  all.  Why  should  you  talk  like 
this — as  if  everything  was  over  between  us?" 

Staring  at  the  wall  before  him,  apparently  uncon- 
scious of  Natalie's  presence,  Kimball,  in  the  same 
even  voice,  went  on  to  say  what  he  had  so  evidently 
come  to  say. 

"There  was  a  young  man  there  to-day — the  young 
man  with  whom  you  took  a  walk  and  with  whom  you 
remained  some  time  on  the  terrace.  From  a  remark 
I  happened  to  overhear,  the  young  man  had  evidently 
been  an  old  flame  of  yours.  Why,  even  I,  a  stranger, 
could  see  in  his  eyes  how  he  loved  you,  and  in  your 
eyes  how  you  loved  him.  But  even  if  I  were  mis- 
taken"—  For  a  moment  the  actor  stopped,  and 
slowly  moistened  his  dry  lips  with  his  tongue.  "Even 

34 


if  you  and  this  young  man  do  not  love  each  other 
as  I'm  sure  you  do,"  he  went  on,  "there  was  some- 
thing else  that  happened — something  that  pointed 
out  to  me  the  barrier  that  would  always  rise  between 
us  two  and  happiness." 

Natalie  started  to  rise  and  go  to  Kimball,  but 
with  a  quick,  nervous  movement  he  motioned  her 
back. 

"It  happened  when  the  camera  went  wrong.  I 
suddenly  glanced  about  at  your  friends  and  I  saw 
that  they  were  laughing  at  me — I  suppose  at  my 
pompous  ways  and  my  exaggerated  clothes.  It 
wasn't  necessary  for  them  to  laugh  to  make  me  un- 
derstand the  difference.  God  knows,  I'd  seen  it  all 
through  the  afternoon." 

"Don't  you  think,  Hugh,"  Natalie  said,  "that  per- 
haps you  are  wrong — just  a  little  tired  from  over- 
work, and — and  morbid?" 

"Don't  think  that  I  blame  them,"  Kimball  went 
on.  "I've  often  wondered  why  we  actors  are  as  we 
are.  I've  sometimes  thought  it  must  be  the  foot- 
lights. They  flare  up  between  us  and  the  audience 
and  to  look  like  human  beings  we've  got  to  paint 
our  faces,  and  to  act  like  real  people  we've  got  to 
exaggerate  our  manners  and  grimace  and  gesticulate 

35 


HER    OWN    SORT 

like  monkeys.  And  then  in  time  we  come  to  exag- 
gerate off  the  stage  and  pose  and  assume  a  grand 
manner  and  wear  loud  clothes.  We're  no  worse  nor 
better  than  your  friends  I  met  to-day — the  only  dif- 
ference is  that  we  always  have  our  make-ups  on." 
He  crossed  the  room  to  where  Natalie  sat,  and  held 
out  both  his  hands.  "And  now  it's  good-by,  my 
dear.  You'd  better  let  me  tell  Feldman  that  you're 
not  returning  with  us.  I  can  fix  it  more  easily  than 
you." 

For  a  few  silent  moments  Natalie  held  the  out- 
stretched hands  tightly  in  both  her  own. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  at  last,  "and  good  luck  to 
you,  Hugh,  and  God  bless  you  always.  Tell  them 
at  Mrs.  Cragin's  that  I'll  be  there  pretty  soon  to  see 
them  all  and  to  get  my  things.  And  I'll  see  you 
there  too,  won't  I,  Hugh?" 

Kimball  dropped  the  girl's  hands  and,  as  if  afraid 
to  meet  her  eyes,  stared  steadily  at  the  blank  wall 
beyond. 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  he  said.  "You  see,  I'll  be  leav- 
ing Sheepshead  very  soon.  The  place  will  be  so  full 
of  ghosts  and — '  Again  he  hesitated,  and  then  went 
on  in  the  same  even  voice.  "But  you'll  be  sure  to  be 

36 


HER    OWN    SORT 

dropping  in  at  the  moving-picture  shows  sometimes, 
won't  you,  whatever  you  happen  to  do?" 

"Why,  of  course,  Hugh,"  Natalie  said,  "lots  of 
times.  I'll  never  forget  my  love  for  the  movies.  Why 
do  you  ask  that?" 

The  question  seemed  to  embarrass  Kimball,  and, 
for  the  first  time  since  she  had  known  him,  he  had 
difficulty  in  finding  the  words  with  which  to  express 
himself. 

"I  was  thinking,"  he  said  at  last,  "that  if  you 
should  ever  see  me  on  the  screen,  as  you're  pretty 
sure  to  do,  give  me  a  nod,  and  for  old  times'  sake 
whisper  what  you  said  to  me  just  now.  'Good  luck 
to  you,  Hugh,  and  God  bless  you  always,'  I'll  be 
sure  to  hear  you." 

And  then,  with  a  brave  attempt  at  his  former 
princely  manner,  the  hero  of  the  moving-picture 
world  made  a  grave  and  courteous  bow  and,  squaring 
his  broad,  padded  shoulders,  strode  from  the  room. 


37 


THE  OCTOPUS 

ARCHIE  SHELDON  found  his  mother  waiting 
for  him  in  the  sitting-room — just  as  he  had  found 
her  waiting  for  him  every  afternoon  since  he  had 
started  to  work  as  a  clerk  in  the  railroad  offices  four 
years  before.  It  was  the  end  of  a  hot  day  in  early 
June,  but  after  the  warm  air  of  the  baked  streets 
the  darkened  little  sitting-room  sepmed  very  cool 
and  fresh,  and  about  the  old  chintz-covered  furniture 
there  was  a  distinct  scent  of  lavender.  As  her  son 
called  to  her  from  the  hallway,  Mrs.  Sheldon  rose 
quickly  from  her  rocking-chair  by  the  window  and 
held  out  her  arms  to  him.  She  put  her  soft  white 
hands  on  his  cheeks,  and  raising  herself  to  her  full 
height  kissed  him  on  his  damp  forehead.  Even  in  the 
dim  twilight  she  could  see  that  he  looked  very  tired 
and  worried, 

"What  is  it,  Archie?"  she  asked.  "Please  tell  your 
mother,  won't  you?" 

Sheldon  put  his  arms  about  her  and  looked  down 
at  the  smooth,  pretty  face  and  the  wavy  bronze  hair. 

38 


THE    OCTOPUS 

Only  those  who  knew  at  what  an  absurdly  young  age 
Mrs.  Sheldon  had  married  could  believe  that  she 
was  the  mother  of  a  son  of  twenty-five. 

"Sit  down,  won't  you?"  he  said.  "I  think  I  will 
tell  you.  I've  wanted  to  have  a  serious  talk  with 
you  for  a  long,  long  time." 

Mrs.  Sheldon  returned  to  the  rocking-chair,  and 
Archie  drew  up  a  foot-stool  and  sat  at  her  feet. 

"A  party  of  the  boys  and  girls  in  town,"  he  began, 
"are  going  up  to  the  mountains  the  last  part  of 
this  month  to  camp  out  for  a  couple  of  weeks.  The 
Slades  are  going  along  to  chaperon  them,  and  it  just 
so  happens  that  all  of  the  crowd  are  friends  of  mine 
— that  is,  if  I  have  any  real  friends.  Well,  I  wasn't 
asked  to  go  along,  that's  all." 

Mrs.  Sheldon  looked  out  through  the  open  window 
upon  the  gray  shadows  of  the  broad,  elm-lined  street, 
and  then  about  the  little  room  as  if  somewhere  in 
the  darkened  corners  or  in  the  recesses  of  the  heavy 
mahogany  furniture  she  would  find  some  adequate 
answer.  "I'm  sorry,  so  very  sorry,"  was  the  only 
answer  that  she  could  find,  and  tKen  she  added ;  "It 
would  have  been  a  wonderful  way  to  spend  your 
vacation,  wouldn't  it?  If  I  could " 

"It  isn't  exactly  that,  mother,"  Sheldon  inter- 
39 


THE    OCTOPUS 

rupted;  "it's  not  just  a  question  of  my  vacation. 
It's  much  more  serious  than  that.  After  living  in 
Dunham  for  over  twenty  years  I  have  made  no  place 
here  for  myself.  When  I  was  a  kid  they  called  me 
'mamma's  boy,'  and  they've  called  me  the  same  thing 
in  one  way  or  another  ever  since.  I  don't  want  to 
hurt  you,  because  you  know  and  I  know  that  you're 
the  best  mother  in  the  world,  and  I  know  how  you've 
toiled  and  slaved  for  me  all  my  life,  but  I've  got  to 
get  away.  I've  got  to  fight  it  out  for  myself — alone. 
I'm  going  away  from  Dunham,  mother,  and  when  I 
come  back  I'll  be  a  man,  a  real  man.  Don't  you, 
won't  you  understand,  dear?"  Sheldon  rose  and 
slowly  paced  up  and  down  the  little  room,  looking 
straight  ahead  and  with  his  hands  clasped  behind 
his  back.  For  a  few  moments  neither  of  them  spoke, 
and  then  it  was  the  low,  even  voice  of  the  mother 
that  broke  the  silence. 

"Have  you  thought  at  all,  Archie,"  she  asked, 
"where  you  will  go?" 

Sheldon  nodded.  "I've  thought  of  it  a  great  deal, 
but  it's  very  hard  to  decide  just  where  I  can  go.  I'd 
like  to  try  New  York — the  game  would  be  bigger 
there  and  the  chances  ought  to  be  better,  but  I  don't 
know  where  or  how  I  could  get  a  start.  It  seems 

40 


THE    OCTOPUS 

strange  that  we  don't  know  any  one  who  would  be 
willing  to  give  me  a  chance.  Most  of  the  boys  I 
know  have  some  rich  relatives  or  old  family  friends 
that  can  do  something  for  them.  Isn't  there  any 
one,  mother?" 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Sheldon  hesitated,  and  when 
she  spoke  it  was  with  much  apparent  effort.  "There 
is  one  old  friend  who  lives  in  New  York,  and  I 
imagine  that  he  is  very  rich.  I  knew  him  after  your 
father's  death,  when  I  was  living  in  New  York.  It 
— it  was  before  you  were  born,  and  I  was  very  poor. 
Then  we  came  to  Dunham,  and  after  that  I  heard 
he  had  been  very  successful.  I  haven't  seen  or 
heard  from  him  for  a  long,  long  time  now,  but 
years  ago  he  offered  to  do  anything  that  he  could 
for  me." 

The  manner  of  the  young  man  suddenly  changed, 
and  he  sat  forward  on  his  chair  and  looked  his 
mother  eagerly  in  the  eyes.  "And  you've  never  asked 
anything  of  him?" 

Mrs.  Sheldon  shook  her  head.  "No,  Archie,"  she 
said,  "never,  and  I  don't  suppose  that  I  ever  should, 
unless  you  wanted  me  to  very  much.  I've  always 
liked  to  be  independent,  and  I  was  never  much  at 
asking  favors  even  of  old  friends.  But  if  this  means 

41 


THE    OCTOPUS 

such  a  great  deal  to  you,  and  if  it  is  your  only 
chance,  I  will  ask  this  man  to  make  good  his 
promise." 

It  was  the  private  secretary  of  Thatcher  Thole 
who  led  Archie  Sheldon  through  the  outer  offices  of 
the  well-known  financier  and  promoter.  In  a  vague 
way  Sheldon  wondered  at  the  extravagance  of  the 
big  sunlit  rooms  and  at  the  great  number  of  smartly 
dressed  young  men  busy  at  their  desks  and  the  many 
women  stenographers  pounding  away  at  their  type- 
writing machines.  Thole's  own  room  was  the  small- 
est of  all  and,  save  for  the  broad  mahogany  desk 
and  a  few  chairs,  was  quite  bare.  "This  is  Mr. 
Sheldon,"  the  secretary  said,  and  went  out,  closing 
the  door  softly  behind  him.  Thoroughly  conscious 
of  the  importance  of  this  first  interview,  Archie  stood 
nervously  twisting  his  hat  between  his  hands  and 
staring  at  the  tall  figure  of  the  financier  silhouetted 
against  the  brilliant  sunlight  of  the  open  window. 

"Glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Sheldon,"  Thole  said,  and 
leaving  the  recess  of  the  window  motioned  Archie  to 
a  chair  across  the  desk  from  his  own.  Sheldon  sat 
down  and  glanced  shyly  at  the  man  in  whose  hands 
his  future  lay.  He  saw  the  gaunt  figure  of  a  man 

42 


THE    OCTOPUS 

in  the  early  fifties,  a  smooth-shaven  face,  a  strong 
chin  and  a  bulging  forehead,  thin  black  hair,  heavily 
streaked  with  white,  and  a  hard  straight  mouth.  The 
whole  impression  that  he  got  in  that  first  glance  was 
one  of  unlimited  determination  and  force,  but  neither 
in  the  steady  gray  eyes  nor  in  the  mouth  was  there 
any  show  of  kindliness  whatever. 

"I  understand  from  a  letter  your  mother  wrote 
me,"  Thole  began,  "that  you  have  had  several  years' 
experience  in  bookkeeping  and  general  office  work. 
As  you  probably  know,  that  sort  of  thing  leads  to 
no  more  in  New  York  than  it  does  in  your  own  town 
of  Dunham.  A  good  bookkeeper  has  no  more 
opportunity  or  right  to  show  his  personality  than 
a  machine  for  making  tacks  has,  and  personality, 
I  believe,  is  the  biggest  factor  in  a  man's  success  in 
business.  If  it  turns  out  that  you  haven't  got  the 
personality  or  the  push  that  means  success,  then 
you  can  still  go  back  to  keeping  books.  In  the  mean- 
time I'm  going  to  turn  you  over  to  Slade,  my  sec- 
retary, and  in  helping  him  you  will  learn  to  make 
yourself  useful  to  me  and  the  various  concerns  in 
which  I  am  interested.  You  will,  in  time — probably 
a  very  short  time — learn  a  good  many  things  of  a 
confidential  nature.  Your  value  to  me  will  depend 

43 


THE    OCTOPUS 

very  largely  on  your  ability  not  to  speak  of  these 
things,  drunk  or  sober,  not  even  to  the  one  girl  whom 
you  are  ass  enough  to  believe  deserves  your  entire 
confidence." 

Sheldon  blushed  scarlet.  "I  don't  drink,  Mr. 
Thole,"  he  protested,  "and  I  have  never  cared  much 
about  girls." 

The  financier  took  a  box  of  cigars  from  a  drawer 
of  his  desk  and  pushed  it  toward  Sheldon,  but  the 
latter  shook  his  head. 

"I  never  smoke,"  he  said. 

Thole  lighted  a  cigar,  stuck  his  hands  deep  into 
his  trousers  pockets,  stretched  his  long  legs  before 
him,  and  under  arched  eyebrows  stared  steadily  at 
the  young  man  across  the  desk.  "Viceless,  eh?  Well, 
I  don't  say  you're  wrong,  and  whatever  else  they 
may  say  about  me  I  don't  know  that  I  was  ever 
accused  of  putting  temptation  in  the  way  of  young 
men.  But  you  will  find  out  before  long  that  the 
liquor  in  New  York  is  better  than  the  liquor  at 
Dunham,  that  there  is  more  of  it,  and  that  you  will 
have  greater  opportunities  and  temptations  to  drink 
it.  You  will  also  find  that  the  women  of  this  town 
are  often  good  looking,  wear  fine  clothes,  and  fre- 
quently make  inducements  for  young  men  to  tell  all 

44 


THE    OCTOPUS 

they  know  —  inducements  which  are  extremely  at- 
tractive and  entirely  unknown  in  country  towns.  As 
for  smoking,  it  is  a  nerve  tonic  which  I  find  harmless 
and  often  wonderfully  beneficial.  I  smoke  and  I 
drink — that  is,  in  moderation;  and  purely  as  recrea- 
tion from  mental  worries  I  like  women — women  of 
all  kinds.  On  the  other  hand,  I  know  one  of  the 
biggest  operators  in  New  York  who  finds  his  recrea- 
tion after  a  hard  day's  fight  with  the  market  in 
solitaire — 'Idiot's  Delight'  is  his  especial  game.  I 
know  another  man.  He's  a  director  in  several  of 
my  companies,  and  his  particular  insanity  is  to  take 
a  lot  of  iron  clubs  and  knock  a  harmless  rubber  ball 
into  a  series  of  tin  cups  stuck  in  the  ground.  There 
is  another  big  operator  down-town  who  is  crazy 
over  unset  gems.  My  particular  'Idiot's  Delight'  is 
women.  I  might  as  well  tell  you  that  now,  because 
everybody  else  will  tell  you  sooner  or  later,  and  they 
might  tell  it  to  you  a  little  stronger  than  I  do.  But 
mind  you,  I  play  women  only  as  my  friends  play 
golf  or  solitaire.  Beyond  occasionally  giving  them 
a  tip  that  some  friend  has  given  me  in  strict  con- 
fidence, I  never  mention  business  to  them  at  all.  They 
don't  know  anything  about  it  in  the  first  place,  and 
in  the  second  place,  they  all  talk — all  of  them." 

45 


THE    OCTOPUS 

So  far  the  interview  was  not  at  all  what  Sheldon 
had  expected,  and  when  he  looked  up  suddenly  and 
his  eyes  met  Thole's,  his  surprise  and  perplexity  were 
very  evident. 

Thole's  straight  lips  relaxed  into  something  that 
resembled  a  smile.  He  sank  farther  back  into  his 
chair,  put  his  feet  on  the  edge  of  the  desk,  and  with 
his  hands  clasped  behind  his  head  sat  for  some 
moments  staring  up  at  the  ceiling. 

"A  little  surprised,  eh?"  he  said  dryly.  "Didn't 
expect  me  to  be  quite  so  confidential?  Well,  I'll  be 
honest  with  you,  Mr.  Sheldon.  I  like  your  looks.  I 
think  we'll  get  on  together.  I  believe  you're  going 
to  be  able  to  help  me  in  one  way  or  another.  Be- 
sides— "  He  dropped  his  feet  to  the  floor  and  looked 
evenly  into  the  eyes  of  the  young  man  across  the 
desk.  "Besides,  I  made  a  promise  to  your  mother 
once,  and  I  don't  remember  now  that  I  ever  broke  a 
promise — certainly  not  to  a  woman. 

"You'll  find  that  there  are  a  good  many  ways  to 
live  in  New  York,  and  you'll  have  to  do  your  own 
choosing — pick  out  your  own  life  and  your  own 
friends.  But  if  you  take  my  advice  you'll  always 
be  a  good  mixer,  and  I'm  pretty  sure  one  way  to  get 
on  in  business  is  to  trail  with  the  boss — in,  and 

46 


THE    OCTOPUS 

especially  out  of,  office-hours.  Find  out  his  weak- 
nesses if  he  has  any,  and  never  leave  him  if  you  have 
to  put  him  to  bed.  No  sane  man's  going  to  give  you 
the  combination  to  his  safe  when  the  sun's  shining. 
Night  time  is  the  time  to  ask  and  grant  favors.  Do 
you  believe  that  these  four  naked  walls  would  ever 
permit  me  to  put  my  name  on  the  note  of  the  best 
friend  I  ever  had?  I  don't." 

With  sudden  confidence  Archie  Sheldon  smiled  at 
the  grim  face  across  the  desk.  "And  yet,  Mr.  Thole, 
you  are  doing  me  a  favor,  a  very  great  favor." 

The  financier  nodded  and  twisted  his  cigar  slowly 
between  his  lips.  "Yes,  in  a  way  you're  right,  but 
when  I  promised  to  do  this  particular  favor  I  was 
not  surrounded  by  these  four  bare  walls.  So,  you 
see,  we  both  win." 

The  next  day  Sheldon  started  his  labors  under 
the  watchful  eye  of  Slade,  the  private  secretary,  a 
well-groomed  young  man,  sometimes  silent,  sometimes 
loquacious  when  the  situation  demanded,  and  with  a 
brain  that  seemed  to  Sheldon  a  perfectly  appointed 
storehouse  filled  with  an  accurate  knowledge  of  all 
men  and  of  all  their  past  deeds.  Under  this  course 
of  private  instruction,  the  boy  from  Dunham  grad- 

47 


THE    OCTOPUS 

ually  acquired  a  fairly  thorough  knowledge  of  the 
enterprises  of  his  employer,  and  something,  too,  of 
the  position  that  he  held  in  the  world  of  trade  and 
finance.  In  a  short  space  of  time  he  ceased  to  look 
for  the  name  of  Thatcher  Thole  in  the  published 
lists  of  citizens  who  were  prominent  in  the  social  life, 
or  who  stood  behind  the  great  public  charities  of 
the  city,  for  he  knew  that  he  would  not  find  it  there ; 
and  yet,  the  farther  his  knowledge  grew  the  more 
he  appreciated  how  great  was  the  power  of  this  man 
and  in  how  many  different  directions  it  extended. 
One  afternoon  on  his  way  up-town  in  the  subway  he 
heard  one  of  two  men  who  sat  opposite  him  mention 
his  employer's  name. 

"Nice  trick  Thole  turned  to-day,  eh?  Must  have 
cleaned  up  a  small  fortune.  Charming  crook." 

"Wonderful,"  said  the  other  man.  "Always  re- 
minds me  of  a  cartoon  I  saw  in  a  newspaper  once 
of  a  colossus  sitting  at  the  gates  of  Wall  Street, 
shearing  the  lambs  as  they  entered  and  casting  them 
adrift  quite  naked  and  shivering  with  the  cold.  I 
never  saw  him,  did  you  ?" 

The  first  man  nodded.  "Yes,  often  at  the  theatre 
and  lobster  restaurants.  I  went  to  a  supper  he  gave 
in  a  private  room  once — it  seems  he  was  shy  of 

48 


THE    OCTOPUS 

guests,  and  some  girl  friend  of  his  asked  me.  He's 
a  big  rangy  cuss ;  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table  look- 
ing like  death  at  the  feast.  It  was  a  good  supper 
though,  so  I  suppose  that's  all  right." 

"Sure,  it's  all  right,"  the  other  man  said,  and  they 
went  on  reading  their  newspapers. 

When  he  was  away  from  the  office,  the  days  and 
nights  of  Archie  Sheldon  were  not  unlike  the  first 
days  and  nights  of  most  young  men  who  come  from 
small  country  towns  to  make  their  fortunes  in  the 
big  market-place.  He  was  quite  conscious  that  all 
about  him  were  many  worlds  of  people,  each  leading 
its  own  life,  and  he  was  equally  conscious  that  he 
had  no  part  in  any  one  of  them.  If  there  was  a  way 
to  break  into  any  of  these  closed  circles  of  human 
beings  whose  interests  seemed  to  be  devoted  to  busi- 
ness, or  society,  or  music,  or  charity,  or  the  lighter 
pleasures  of  a  great  city,  he  had  not  yet  discovered 
that  way.  Even  the  clerks  and  the  women  stenog- 
raphers in  the  big  rooms  at  the  office  down-town 
were  forever  whispering  of  their  parties  and  dances, 
but  he  knew  that  he  could  not  be  part  of  their  lives, 
even  had  he  wished  to  be  let  in.  He  was  shut  up  in 
Slade's  little  room,  which  connected  directly  with  the 
private  office  of  the  great  Thole  himself,  and  there- 

49 


THE    OCTOPUS 

fore  he  was  held  as  one  apart,  a  little  superior  to 
the  rest  of  the  force,  and  he  knew  that  this  was 
as  his  employer  would  have  it  and  that  he  must 
acknowledge  this  responsibility  and  be  thoroughly 
lonely  in  consequence. 

Only  once  had  he  met  any  of  Thole's  employees 
away  from  the  office.  He  had  been  at  a  vaudeville 
performance,  and  afterward  had  gone  to  the  College 
Inn,  partly  because  he  was  hungry,  but  principally 
for  a  glimpse  of  the  gay  life  of  which  he  had  already 
heard  much  from  the  worldly-wise  Slade.  At  a  little 
table  directly  across  the  narrow  room  from  his  own, 
he  was  quite  sure  that  he  recognized  one  of  the  girls 
who  worked  in  the  outside  office;  but  instead  of  the 
simple  black  dress  in  which  he  was  accustomed  to 
see  her,  she  now  wore  a  flaring  pink  hat  with  a  great 
white  plume  and  a  lace  waist  cut  low  and  decorated 
with  a  huge  brooch  of  imitation  diamonds.  In  an- 
swer to  his  smiling  greeting  she  looked  him  steadily 
in  the  eyes,  and  then  returned  to  her  conversation 
with  the  young  man  who  was  with  her.  The  next 
morning  Sheldon,  as  was  his  custom,  arrived  at  the 
office  at  least  half  an  hour  before  Thole  or  Slade  was 
expected  to  put  in  an  appearance.  No  sooner  was 
he  at  his  desk  than  the  girl  came  in  and,  having 

50 


THE    OCTOPUS 

assured  herself  that  he  was  alone,  cautiously  closed 
the  door  behind  her. 

"How  are  you?"  Sheldon  said.  "I'm  glad  you 
recognize  me  this  morning." 

For  a  moment  the  girl  hesitated  at  the  doorway, 
and  then  crossed  the  room  and  with  an  air  of  much 
assurance  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  desk.  The  simple 
cloth  skirt  she  wore  fitted  her  closely  and  showed 
every  line  of  her  well-rounded  figure.  She  twisted 
her  mouth  into  a  smile  of  understanding  and  tossed 
her  chin  prettily  in  the  air.  "Caught  me  with  the 
goods,  eh?"  she  laughed.  "I  was  flabbergasted  when 
I  saw  you  come  in  last  night;  I  somehow  never 
thought  of  you  going  to  a  place  like  the  Inn.  You 
won't  tell  the  old  man,  will  you?" 

Sheldon  shook  his  head.  "Does  that  sort  of  thing 
amuse  you?"  he  asked. 

"Sure!  Why  not?  If  you  hammered  a  typewriter 
all  day  I  guess  it  would  amuse  you,  too.  But  I'd 
get  fired  if  Slade  or  the  old  man  knew  of  it.  It's 
too  near  their  own  game.  I  don't  take  a  chance 
often  on  Broadway,  but  it's  a  lot  better  than  the 
rink  and  the  Circle  restaurants.  There's  really  not 
much  risk,  because  I  keep  clear  of  Rector's  and 
Churchill's  and  those  swell  joints  where  Thole  hangs 

51 


THE    OCTOPUS 

out.  Gee,  but  I  got  a  shock  when  you  walked  in  on 
me!  You  won't  tell  though,  will  you?" 

Again  Archie  shook  his  head. 

"'Bliged,"  she  said,  and  with  a  smile  of  friendly 
confidence  moved  away  from  the  desk.  When  she 
reached  the  door  she  turned  to  him.  "A  girl's  got 
to  have  a  good  time  once  in  a  while,"  she  said  quite 
seriously,  "after  working  a  six-hour  day,  and  espe- 
cially after  those  twenty  years  of  misspent  youth  I 
wasted  with  the  folks  in  Poughkeepsie.  I  knew  you 
were  a  sport  and  would  understand.  Bye-bye." 

At  one  o'clock  every  day  Sheldon  lunched  with 
Thole  and  Slade  and  any  of  the  lambs  whose  wool 
seemed  sufficiently  fine  and  long  enough  for  Thole  to 
shear.  In  a  body  they  all  adjourned  to  a  neighbor- 
ing restaurant,  and  to  the  insidious  strains  of  a 
Hungarian  band  Thole  fattened  the  lambs  with 
plenty  of  good  food  and  wine  preparatory  to  the 
slaughter.  Even  if  it  was  his  employer  who  paid 
the  check  at  the  end  of  every  meal,  Sheldon  soon 
learned  that  he,  in  his  own  way,  was  expected  to 
pay  his  share.  He  was  always  placed  between  two 
of  the  lambs,  and,  according  to  previous  instructions 
received  from  the  diplomatic  Slade,  it  was  his  part 
to  lead  the  conversation  to,  or  perhaps  away  from, 

52 


THE    OCTOPUS 

certain  enterprises.  Oftentimes  Thole  was  not  ready 
to  launch  his  purpose  so  early  as  the  luncheon-hour, 
and  then  the  repast  became  a  purely  social  occasion 
at  which  politics  and  the  drama  and  the  ladies  of 
the  theatrical  profession  were  discussed  in  lighter 
vein.  But  even  this  favorite  topic  was  not  without 
a  motive,  for  it  always  led  to  a  suggestion  on  the 
part  of  the  host  that  he  would  like  to  have  his  friends 
at  dinner  that  night  and  go  to  a  musical  comedy 
afterward.  Invariably  at  this  point  Thole's  straight 
lips  would  waver  into  a  smile,  and  he  would  blink 
his  steel-gray  eyes  at  the  circle  of  lambs  about  the 
table  and  suggest  somewhat  diffidently  that,  if  agree- 
able to  all  of  the  party,  he  would  try  to  induce  some 
of  the  ladies  of  the  chorus  to  join  them  at  supper, 
after  the  theatre.  And  the  lambs,  who  usually  came 
from  adjacent  cities,  would  accept  the  invitation 
Avith  alacrity  and  express  their  particular  delight  at 
the  prospect  of  having  some  of  the  ladies  of  the 
chorus  with  them  at  supper. 

So  far  Archie  Sheldon  had  never  been  asked  to 
one  of  these  parties,  but  he  felt  that  he  was  gradually 
gaining  the  confidence  of  Thole,  and  that  some  day 
he  would  become  a  part  of  the  old  man's  hours  of 
relaxation  just,  for  instance,  as  Slade  had  become. 

53 


THE    OCTOPUS 

In  the  meantime  there  was  little  in  his  life  beyond 
his  work  to  interest  or  amuse  him,  and  there  were 
moments  when  he  was  greatly  tempted  to  throw  it 
all  up  and  go  back  to  the  uneventful  days  and  the 
quieter  nights  at  Dunham.  Every  evening  after 
supper,  he  wrote  a  letter  to  his  mother.  She  always 
had  been  and  still  was  the  best  part  of  his  life,  and 
the  greatest  pleasure  of  some  new  incident  that 
happened  during  the  day  was  that  he  could  write  to 
her  about  it  at  night.  His  fellow  boarders  at  the 
house  in  which  he  lived  on  West  Forty-fifth  Street 
were  a  dull,  soggy  set  of  souls,  who  worked  down- 
town during  the  day  and  in  the  evening  sat  about 
the  boarding-house,  the  men  collarless  and  the  women 
in  wrappers,  and  all  reading  the  evening  newspapers. 
Only  the  girl  who  lived  in  the  little  room  at  the  end 
of  his  hallway  interested  him  at  all,  and  that  was 
but  the  interest  of  pity,  and  the  natural  admiration 
a  man  has  for  any  girl  who  is  making  a  good  fight. 
She  was  a  pretty,  very  pale  little  thing  with  a  great 
deal  of  soft  brown  hair  and  big  brown  eyes,  a  slightly 
turned-up  nose,  and  a  small  mouth  with  cupid-bow 
lips.  Ever  since  Sheldon  had  known  her  she  had 
been  suffering  from  a  cold,  and  often  the  spells  of 
coughing  were  so  severe  that  she  would  leave  the  table 

54 


THE    OCTOPUS 

and  hurry  to  her  room,  and  then  the  boarders  would 
glance  at  each  other  dolefully,  shake  their  heads  in 
an  ominous  way,  and  return  to  their  modest  dinner. 
It  was  very  late  one  night  when  the  attacks  of  cough- 
ing had  been  particularly  hard  that  Sheldon,  unable 
to  sleep,  knocked  at  the  girl's  door  and  asked  if  he 
could  be  of  some  assistance.  In  reply,  Violet  Rein- 
hardt — for  that  was  the  girl's  name — opened  the 
door  and  asked  her  visitor  to  come  in.  It  was  an 
absurdly  small  room,  with  a  single  window  opening 
on  a  court.  There  were  a  bed,  a  bureau,  and  a  wash- 
stand,  a  single  chair,  and  a  trunk  with  a  label  that 
read,  "Baltimore  Belles-Hotel."  Even  in  the  dim 
light  of  the  single  gas-jet  Sheldon  could  see  that  the 
carpet  was  ragged  and  the  wall-paper  faded  and 
soiled.  There  were  no  curtains  at  the  window,  no 
pictures  on  the  walls,  nor  photographs  on  the  bureau 
— the  room  was  quite  shocking  in  its  naked  poverty. 
With  one  hand  the  girl  held  her  chintz  wrapper  to- 
gether and  with  the  other  brushed  back  the  mass  of 
brown  hair  from  her  pale  forehead. 

"I  hope  I  haven't  kept  you  awake  with  my  cough- 
ing," she  apologized ;  "it's  awful  bad  to-night. 
Won't  you  sit  down?" 

Sheldon  sat  on  the  chair  and  the  girl  opposite  him 
55 


THE    OCTOPUS 

on  the  bed  among  the  mass  of  tousled  sheets  and 
blankets.  She  saw  him  glance  at  the  label  on  the 
trunk  and  seemed  to  think  that  it  deserved  an 
explanation. 

"I  used  to  be  with  a  burlesque  troupe.  Just  like 
most  kids  in  small  towns  I  was  crazy  to  go  on  the 
stage  and  ran  away,  but  I  couldn't  go  the  one-night 
stands  and  the  travel.  Gee,  but  that's  a  tough 
game — those  burlesque  troupes — twice  a  day  most 
of  the  time !" 

"And  now?"  asked  Sheldon. 

The  girl  leaned  her  elbows  on  her  knees  and  rested 
her  chin  between  her  palms.  "Now,"  she  sighed, 
"just  now  I'm  posing.  That's  why  my  cold's  so  bad 
— the  studio  where  I  was  working  was  awful  cold — no 
fire  and  me  posing  for  Cupid."  The  girl  looked  down 
at  her  bare  ankles  and  the  big  gray  woollen  slippers 
she  wore,  and  smiled  grimly  at  the  thought.  It  was 
the  first  time  that  Sheldon  had  seen  her  smile,  and 
for  the  first  time  he  saw  that  Miss  Reinhardt  had 
a  certain  piquant  beauty,  that  kind  of  beauty  that 
cannot  well  be  denied. 

"Does  posing  pay?"  he  asked. 

The  girl  glanced  about  at  the  bare,  cheerless  room. 
"About  eighteen  a  week,  but  the  doctors  've  been 

56 


THE    OCTOPUS 

getting  most  of  that.  They  don't  even  leave  me 
enough  to  dress  on  decently."  Her  pale  lips  broke 
into  a  smile.  "But,  you  see,  you  don't  need  many 
clothes  when  you  pose  for  Cupid.  I  saw  a  dress 
to-day  though  in  a  window  on  Fifth  Avenue.  It  was 
all  lacy  and  had  little  gold  threads  in  it,  and  there 
was  a  cape  to  match,  and  a  big  black  hat  went  with 
it.  Just  for  fun  I  went  in  and  asked  one  of  the 
salesladies  what  the  whole  outfit  would  cost,  and  she 
said  she'd  let  me  have  it  as  a  special  favor  for  five 
hundred,  and  then  we  both  looked  at  my  torn  coat 
and  had  a  good  laugh  over  it.  Just  the  same,  if  I 
ever  got  that  five  hundred  dollars'  worth  of  rags  on 
I'd  make  some  of  those  show-girls  sitting  around 
Rector's  sit  up  and  take  notice." 

"Of  course  you  would,"  Sheldon  said,  and  moved 
toward  the  door.  "There's  nothing  I  can  do  for 
you?"  he  asked.  "I  mean  nothing  I  can  get  you  to 
help  you  to  sleep?" 

She  smiled  and  shook  the  pretty  mass  of  brown 
hair.  "No,  thank  you,"  she  said.  "Obliged  for  your 
visit.  Don't  make  yourself  strange,  now  that  we're 
acquainted.  Good  night." 

As  yet,  all   Sheldon  knew   of  Thole  and  of  the 
57 


THE    OCTOPUS 

kind  of  life  he  led  outside  of  business  was  the  little 
he  had  learned  from  the  private  secretary  and  from 
the  glimpses  he  had  enjoyed  on  the  infrequent  oc- 
casions when  he  had  wandered  alone  and  as  a  stranger 
into  the  big  supper-restaurants  of  Broadway.  After 
the  dull  pleasures  of  Dunham,  these  glimpses  of  the 
white-light  district  had  seemed  bright  enough  to  the 
young  man,  especially  as  no  other  social  life  seemed 
open  to  him,  or  ever  would  be  open  so  long  as  he 
remained  a  trusted  servant  of  his  present  employer. 
Even  to  the  inexperienced  eyes  of  Archie  Sheldon 
the  somewhat  dubious  position  of  Thole  in  the  busi- 
ness and  social  worlds  of  New  York  was  becoming 
very  evident.  On  several  occasions  when  he  had 
carried  confidential  messages  to  some  of  the  great 
men  in  the  world  of  finance  and  had  told  them 
whence  he  came,  he  noticed  that  they  regarded  him 
with  just  a  shade  of  curiosity  and  surprise;  once  on 
leaving  a  broker's  private  office,  he  had  stopped  for 
a  moment  outside,  and  through  the  open  transom  he 
had  heard  the  voice  of  the  broker  saying  to  his 
secretary,  "and  such  a  nice,  good-looking  boy, 
too." 

It  was  late  in  November,  four  months   after  his 
arrival  in  New  York,  when  Sheldon  was  first  asked 

58 


THE    OCTOPUS 

to  supper  by  his  employer.  Tired  of  spending  his 
evenings  at  the  boarding-house,  he  had  gone  to  the 
theatre,  and  there  from  his  seat  in  the  orchestra  he 
had  seen  Thole  in  a  box  with  two  women  friends. 
Both  of  them  were  conspicuous  on  account  of  the 
low-cut  gowns  and  big  black  picture  hats  they  wore, 
and  both,  at  least  in  the  eyes  of  Sheldon,  were  su- 
perlatively beautiful.  Thole,  crouched  in  a  wicker 
chair,  sat  in  the  back  of  the  box  occasionally  glanc- 
ing at  the  stage  between  the  bare  shoulders  of  his 
companions.  After  the  first  act  was  over  the  two 
men  met  in  the  lobby.  Thole  greeted  the  younger 
one  cordially  and  offered  him  a  cigarette,  or  to  buy 
him  a  drink,  both  of  which  invitations  Sheldon  re- 
fused. After  this,  Thole  seemed  to  hesitate  for  a 
few  moments  and  then:  "Why  not  come  into  my 
box  and  meet  my  friends?  There's  plenty  of  room, 
and  we're  going  to  my  place  afterward  for  a  little 
supper." 

Sheldon  accepted  the  proposition  with  alacrity, 
and  was  led  into  the  box  and  presented  to  the  two 
ladies.  When  the  performance  began  again  he  noticed 
that  their  entire  interest  seemed  centered,  not  in  the 
principals,  but  in  the  six  show  girls,  with  whom  they 
frequently  exchanged  smiling  glances.  Every  few 

59 


THE    OCTOPUS 

minutes  one  of  the  two  women,  in  an  apparent  effort 
to  be  civil  to  Sheldon,  would  turn  to  him  and  say 
with  a  forced  enthusiasm,  "Don't  you  think  Maizie 
looks  lovely  in  that  pink  frock?"  or,  "Isn't  Eunice 
the  prettiest  show-girl  in  town?"  And  Sheldon 
would  smile  and  say  that  he  agreed  thoroughly. 
Thole  himself  sat  silent  in  the  back  of  the  box,  and 
when  the  show-girls  were  not  on  the  stage,  the  two 
women  looked  at  the  audience  and  were  apparently 
thoroughly  bored.  When  the  performance  was 
nearly  over  they  arose  in  a  most  stately  manner, 
gazed  once  more  at  the  audience  in  a  supercilious 
way,  smiled  again  pleasantly  at  the  show-girls 
nearest  them  on  the  stage,  and  then,  led  by  Thole, 
and  with  a  great  rustling  of  their  silken  skirts, 
walked  proudly  out  of  the  box.  Sheldon  followed 
in  the  wake  of  the  party,  not  knowing  whether 
to  feel  rather  pleased  or  thoroughly  embarrassed. 
Thole's  car  was  waiting  for  them,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  they  were  at  his  apartment  overlooking  the 
park  on  West  Fifty-ninth  Street.  At  the  doorway 
Sheldon  hesitated  for  a  moment  in  wide-eyed  wonder. 
The  flames  from  the  big  wood  fire  and  a  light  con- 
cealed by  a  great  golden-colored  globe  filled  the 
place  with  a  dull  orange  glow,  and  threw  fantastic 

60 


THE    OCTOPUS 

shadows  on  the  scarlet  silk  walls,  the  high  tapestried 
and  gilded  chairs,  the  great  white  bearskin  before 
the  hearth,  the  soft  deep  Persian  rugs,  the  cabinets 
filled  with  fragile,  delicately  colored  glass,  and  the 
glistening  mahogany  side-boards  loaded  with  massive 
pieces  of  silver.  To  more  practised  eyes  it  was  an 
apartment  in  which  great  luxury  and  comfort  were 
marred  by  a  conspicuous  lack  of  good  taste,  but  to 
Sheldon  it  was  all  quite  beautiful. 

"It's  like  a  glimpse  of  fairyland,"  he  ventured  to 
remark  to  Miss  Fannie  Brugiere.  Miss  Brugiere 
was  very  dark,  with  a  lovely  oval  face  and  masses  of 
black  hair,  which  she  wore  in  two  great  waves  over 
her  broad  white  forehead. 

"It's  good  enough,"  she  said  indifferently;  "quite 
comfy,"  and  she  shrugged  her  -wonderful  bare 
shoulders. 

"Come  in,  Fannie,  and  help  me,"  Thole  called  from 
the  dining-room.  "I  sent  th?  servants  home,  and 
we  have  got  to  look  out  for  ourselves." 

The  other  girl — Miss  Lillian  Lester — walked  over 
to  a  high  French  window  and  pulling  back  the  cur- 
tain beckoned  Sheldon  to  join  her.  "Did  you  ever 
see  the  view  from  here?"  she  asked.  "It's  quite 
lovely." 

61 


THE    OCTOPUS 

Through  the  little  square  window-panes  they  looked 
out  on  the  starlit  sky  and  the  many  lights  of  the 
taxicabs  twinkling  through  the  trees  at  the  edge  of 
the  park.  Of  his  new  acquaintances  Sheldon  instinc- 
tively preferred  Miss  Lester.  As  if  in  studied  con- 
trast to  the  dark  Junoesque  Miss  Brugiere  she  was 
very  blonde,  with  a  pink-and-white  skin  and  round 
blue  eyes  which,  with  her  scarlet  lips,  seemed  to  be 
always  smiling  in  a  most  friendly  fashion,  and  in- 
viting one's  confidence.  For  some  moments  they 
stood  in  the  window,  silently  looking  out  at  the  vivid 
beauty  of  the  night,  and  then  it  was  the  girl  who 
spoke. 

"You  seem  to  be  a  great  friend  of  Thole's.  Why 
have  I  never  met  you  before?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly,"  Sheldon  said,  a  little 
confused.  "I  don't  really  know  why  he's  never  asked 
me  before.  I've  known  him  only  a  few  months." 

"I  see.  You've  not  lived  in  New  York  long,  have 
you  ?" 

"No,"  Sheldon  said.     "How  did  you  know  that?" 

Miss  Lester  smiled  her  sweet  smile  at  him  and 
tossed  her  dimpled  chin  in  the  air.  "Oh,  I  don't 
know  exactly.  You're  just  different.  I  think  we'd 
better  join  the  others  now." 

62 


THE    OCTOPUS 

As  his  first  glimpse  of  the  gay  life  of  New  York 
it  did  not  appeal  to  Sheldon  as  a  very  brilliant  affair. 
The  wit  and  sparkle  seemed  in  no  way  commensurate 
with  the  wealth  of  the  surroundings  or  the  beauty 
of  the  women.  No  one  except  himself  seemed  the 
least  interested  in  the  many  good  things  to  eat, 
and  the  talk  never  rose  above  the  level  of  the  gossip 
of  the  stage  and  the  men  who  openly  courted  its 
women.  The  host  seldom  spoke,  ate  nothing,  but 
occasionally  sipped  a  glass  of  champagne  and 
smoked  a  long  black  cigar  continually. 

"Sort  of  dull,  ain't  it,  Archie?"  he  said  after  a 
long  silence.  "I  wish  I'd  ordered  up  some  coon- 
shouters;  they  might  have  livened  things  up  a  little. 
But  it  ai'n't  always  as  quiet  as  this." 

Miss  Brugiere  cast  a  reproachful  glance  at  Thole 
and  Lillian  Lester,  as  if  to  show  that  she  was  not 
without  spirit  had  she  wished  to  show  it,  and  asked 
for  another  glass  of  champagne.  "Don't  you  ever 
want  to  be  quiet?"  she  complained.  "I  should  think, 
Thole,  that  you'd  get  tired  of  rough-house  parties 
sometimes." 

"I  don't  care,"  he  said,  "I  don't  care,  but  I  was 
sorry  for  Archie.  It's  the  first  time  he's  been  out 

G3 


THE    OCTOPUS 

with  me,  and  I  sort  of  wanted  him  to  have  a  good 
time." 

"I'll  turn  a  flip-flap,"  Miss  Lester  suggested,  "or 
sing  a  song,  or  kick  the  Venetian  globes  out  of  that 
million-dollar  chandelier  overhead  if  you  say  so,  but 
don't  blame  us  because  you  haven't  brought  Mr. 
Sheldon  out  with  you  before.  Goodness  knows  he's 
better  than  most  of  the  kikes  and  rubes  you  travel 
with.  Now  if " 

"I  had  good  reason,"  Thole  interrupted,  appar- 
ently wholly  ignorant  of  Sheldon's  presence,  "good 
reason  and  plenty  for  not  bringing  him  along. 
How'd  I  know  he  wouldn't  break  into  another  crowd  ? 
Broadway  isn't  New  York." 

Sheldon  smiled  pleasantly  across  the  table  at  his 
host.  "Why,  Mr.  Thole,"  he  said,  "you  told  me  the 
first  time  I  saw  you  that  the  way  to  get  on  was  to 
trail  with  the  boss,  especially  after  office-hours.  I'm 
trailing  now,  and  I  like  it." 

The  two  women  laughed  aloud,  "How  about  it?" 
said  Miss  Lester. 

Thole  pulled  at  his  cigar,  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke 
across  the  white  table-cloth,  and  watched  it  being 
sucked  up  by  the  pink  candle-shades.  "That's 
right,"  he  said,  "I  told  him  that  very  thing,  and  I 

64 


THE    OCTOPUS 

was  sorry  for  it  afterward.  There  was  only  one 
good  piece  of  advice  I  could  have  given  him,  and 
I  knew  that  he  would  pay  no  heed  to  that,  so  I  told 
him  the  next  best  thing  I  knew." 

Miss  Lester  reached  across  the  table  to  a  box  of 
cigarettes,  and  taking  one,  slowly  rolled  it  between 
her  long  white  fingers.  "That's  most  interesting," 
she  said.  "What  would  be  your  real  advice  to  a 
young  man  starting  in  New  York?" 

Thole  looked  at  the  girl  and  smiled  grimly  into 
the  big  blue  eyes.  "I'd  tell  him  to  go  home." 

Lillian  Lester  shook  her  fluffy  yellow  hair  and 
laughed  aloud.  "That  is  funny,"  she  said. 

"Was  it  funny  last  summer,"  Thole  asked,  "when 
you  came  to  me  and  begged  me  for  the  money  to 
send  you  back  to  Middleboro,  where  you  said  they 
knew  you  as  Maggie  Somebody,  and  had  never  heard 
of  you  as  Lillian  Lester?  I  loaned  you  that  money 
just  because  you  told  me  you  wanted  to  get  back 
for  a  month  with  the  boys  and  girls  you  knew  when 
you  were  a  kid.  Am  I  right  or  am  I  wrong?  I  know. 
I  went  back  myself  once,  but  I  was  the  regular  thing, 
for  I  was  well  heeled.  I  played  the  whole  four  acts 
— bought  the  old  place,  put  in  enamel  bath-tubs,  and 

65 


THE    OCTOPUS 

turned  the  stable  into  a  garage  big  enough  for  six 
cars." 

Miss  Lester  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  table  and 
rested  her  chin  between  her  palms.  "Well?"  she 
asked. 

"Well,  I  didn't  find  it— the  peace  and  quiet  I'd 
been  looking  forward  to  and  working  for  for  thirty 
years.  It  wasn't  there,  all  right — that  is,  it  wasn't 
there  for  me.  They'd  taken  my  love  for  that  away 
from  me,  but  they'd  put  something  else  there  in  its 
place;  they'd  just  plain  poisoned  my  whole  system. 
I'd  been  going  too  hard  and  too  fast  for  thirty  years 
to  slow  down,  and  so  I  hurried  back.  I  suppose  I 
was  afraid  I'd  miss  something.  But  do  you  think 
that  there  is  anything  in  this  big  town  that  can  take 
the  place  of  the  peace  and  content  of  that  farm?  I 
don't.  I  tell  you  this  town  poisons  you.  Some  of 
us  live  through  it,  and  some  of  us  don't,  but  we  all 
die  with  it  in  our  systems.  And  the  worst  of  it  is 
that  it  isn't  confined  to  New  York — this  town  ought 
to  be  segregated,  but  you  can't  segregate  it.  It's 
the  fountain-head  for  the  rotten  books  and  the  filthy 
plays  and  the  stories  of  the  gay  life  of  the  Great 
White  Way,  as  they  call  it,  and  the  romances  of 
fortunes  made  overnight  on  the  stock-market;  and 

66 


THE    OCTOPUS 

the  rotten  plays  and  the  tales  of  Broadway  and  Wall 
Street  are  sent  scurrying  over  the  country  like  bad 
blood  chasing  through  the  veins  of  some  great  fine 
brute  of  an  animal.  It's  an  octopus,  I  tell  you,  an 
octopus,  and  its  dirty  tentacles  stretch  to  every 
village  in  America." 

Lillian  Lester  smiled  across  the  table  at  Thole  and 
shook  her  pretty  blond  curls.  "It  misses  some  towns 
all  right,  all  right.  If  you'd  spent  the  summer  with 
me  at  Middleboro  you'd  believe  me.  There's  no  New 
York  blood  has  reached  that  burg  yet." 

"No?"  said  Thole.  "How  about  that  young  sister 
of  yours  you  brought  back  with  you?  Didn't  she 
tell  me  herself  the  other  night  at  Rector's  that  she 
had  been  a  stenographer  in  a  bank  at  home,  and  lived 
with  her  family,  and  was  contented  enough  till  she 
got  a  peep  at  your  pretty  dresses  and  your  fine 
underclothes?  She  told  me  how  they  used  to  dry 
your  things  in  the  kitchen  so  the  neighbors  wouldn't 
know.  I  guess  New  York  got  to  her  one  way  or 
another  all  right,  even  if  she  did  live  in  Middleboro." 

During  the  last  few  words  Miss  Lester's  pink 
pretty  face  went  quite  white,  but  she  kept  her  h'ps 
hard  pressed  and  gazed  blankly  across  the  table  into 
the  big  bovine  eyes  of  Miss  Brugiere. 

67 


THE    OCTOPUS 

"And  how  is  it  with  you,  Fannie?"  Thole  asked. 
"I'll  bet  you  came  from  some  little  town,  brought 
here  by  some  fairy  tales  of  the  great  city,  eh?  Am 
I  right  or  am  I  wrong?" 

"Not  so  little — Kansas  City." 

Thole  nodded.  "Well,  even  if  I  missed  that  guess 
I'll  bet  your  folks  were  quiet,  respectable,  law- 
abiding  citizens." 

The  girl  leaned  over  the  table  and  looked  Thole 
evenly  in  the  eyes.  "You  can  cut  out  my  people 
from  this  talk.  They've  got  no  more  to  do  with 
you  and  your  kind  than  they  have  with  me." 

Miss  Brugiere  sank  back  in  her  chair  and  daubed 
her  tear-stained  eyes  with  an  exquisitely  small  lace 
handkerchief. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Thole,  "but  that's  the  answer." 

"Well,  there's  one  thing  certain,"  Sheldon  laughed, 
"this  New  York  poison  never  got  as  far  as  Dunham. 
At  least  if  it  did  I  never  knew  of  it." 

Thole's  teeth  closed  hard  on  his  cigar,  and  for  a 
moment  he  sat  silent,  his  eyes  blinking  at  the  pink 
candle-shades.  Then:  "That's  good,  Archie.  I  hope 
you  never  may." 

Miss  Brugiere  stirred  uneasily  and  with  a  stifled 
yawn  rose  from  the  table.  "I'm  tired  of  hearing 

68 


THE    OCTOPUS 

you  rave,  Thole,"  she  said,  smiling.  "Who's  going 
to  take  me  home?" 

Thole  pulled  himself  slowly  to  his  feet.  "The  car 
is  waiting  for  you  down-stairs.  Sheldon  can  take 
you  both  home.  I'm  sorry,  Archie,"  he  added, 
stretching  his  long  arms  above  his  head,  "but  I'm 
tired,  dead  beat." 

The  women  went  into  the  bedroom  to  put  on  their 
wraps,  and  for  the  moment  the  two  men  were  left 
alone.  Sheldon  was  standing  before  the  fireplace, 
and  Thole  walked  over  to  him  and  laid  his  hand 
gently  on  the  younger  man's  shoulder.  In  the  dim 
light  of  the  burning  logs  he  looked  into  Sheldon's 
eyes. 

"You're  wonderfully  like  your  mother  sometimes," 
he  said,  "wonderfully  like."  For  a  moment  he  hesi- 
tated, as  if  uncertain  as  to  just  how  to  express  him- 
self further.  He  tossed  his  half-smoked  cigar  into 
the  grate,  and  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue  moistened 
his  dry  lips.  "I'm  sorry,"  he  said  at  last,  "I'm  very 
sorry  about  to-night." 

"Sorry?"  Sheldon  repeated.  "Why,  I've  had  a 
grand  time.  I  enjoyed  every  minute  of  it." 

Thole  nodded.  "I'm  glad  of  that.  It  seemed  to 
me  to  be  pretty  dull,  and  then — well,  I'd  always 

69 


THE    OCTOPUS 

hoped  that  you  might  take  up  with  a  different  crowd. 
Of  course  these  girls — "  He  hesitated  for  a  moment, 
and  before  the  sentence  was  finished  the  women  had 
returned. 

Sheldon  and  Lillian  Lester  left  Miss  Brugiere  at 
her  apartment  and  then  started  on  the  last  stage 
of  their  journey  to  Miss  Lester's  home,  which  was 
far  over  on  the  West  Side.  As  they  turned  from 
the  avenue  into  the  broad  deserted  plaza  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  park,  Miss  Lester  settled  back  into 
the  deep  cushions,  and  as  if  from  sheer  weariness 
closed  her  eyes.  The  big  car  purred  on  its  way  over 
the  smooth  frosted  roadways,  and  the  very  speed  at 
which  they  flew  by  the  long  rows  of  leafless  trees 
warned  Sheldon  that  his  first  night  of  happiness  in 
New  York  was  fast  nearing  an  end.  For  some  time 
there  was  silence,  and  then  he  turned  to  his  com- 
panion. Her  chin  was  sunk  deep  in  the  collar  of 
her  long  fur  coat,  her  eyes  were  still  closed,  but  about 
her  lips  there  was  the  same  friendly  smile  that  had 
first  attracted  him  to  her  and  added  so  much  to  the 
real  beauty  of  the  girl. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  very  tired,"  he  said.  "It  must 
have  been  an  awful  bore  to  you,  sitting  about  all 
night  with  Thole  and  me." 

70 


THE    OCTOPUS 

Miss  Lester  shook  her  pretty  head  and  opened  her 
eyes  as  if  in  wonder  at  the  thought.  "A  bore?"  she 
repeated  softly.  "I  don't  know  when  I've  been 
much  happier  than  I  was  to-night.  I  loved  it." 

Sheldon  looked  eagerly  into  the  now  wide-open 
eyes.  "Why?"  he  asked,  "why?" 

Again  the  eyes  closed,  and  quickly  putting  out 
her  gloved  hand  she  touched  the  sleeve  of  his  coat 
and  as  quickly  drew  it  back  again.  "I  guess  it 
must  have  been  you,"  she  whispered.  "You  see, 
you're  so  different  from  the  rest.  I  knew  that  I 
was  going  to  like  you  the  minute  you  came  into  the 
box." 

The  big  car  swung  sharply  from  the  dark  roadway 
into  the  broad,  brilliantly  lighted  street,  and  Miss 
Lester  slowly  pulled  herself  out  of  the  comfort  of  the 
deep  cushions  and  sat  up  very  erect  on  the  edge  of 
the  seat. 

"We're  almost  there,"  she  sighed.  "It  seems  only 
a  few  moments  since  we  left  Fannie's." 

"Then  it's  good  night,"  he  said,  "and  you  are 
going  to  let  me  see  you  very  soon  again,  and  we  are 
going  to  be  great  friends,  aren't  we?" 

She  put  out  her  hand,  and  for  a  few  moments  it 
rested  in  both  of  his,  while  for  the  first  time  he  saw 

71 


THE    OCTOPUS 

the  smile  leave  her  lips  and  a  new  and  very  serious 
look  come  into  the  blue  eyes. 

"It's  up  to  you,"  she  said  simply.     "That's  just 
how  it  is — it's  all  up  to  you." 

Uneventful  as  the  night  of  his  first  supper^party 
may  have   been   to   the  others,   it  was   marked  by 
the  second  mile-stone  in  the  life  of  young  Sheldon. 
The  next  morning  Thole  called  him  into  his  office 
and  told  him  that,  owing  to  his  close  attention  to 
business,  he  had  decided  to  raise  his  salary,  and  the 
increase  was   of  considerable  proportions.      A   few 
days  later,  as  a  further  reward  for  his  faithful  ser- 
vices, Thole  announced  that  he  had  opened  a  joint 
account  on  behalf  of  himself  and  Sheldon  and  that 
the   stock   in   which   he   had   invested    should    show 
a  quick  and  substantial  profit.     With  this  turn  in 
Archie's  financial  condition  there  came  many  other 
changes.      He   moved   from   the  boarding-house   on 
Forty-fifth  Street  to  a  small  apartment  in  a  more 
modish   neighborhood   and  went   to   a   good   tailor, 
who  made  him  clothes  suitable  to  his  new  social  re- 
sponsibilities.    For  advice  in  these  and  similar  mat- 
ters he  turned  to  Slade,  whose  knowledge  of  such 
affairs,  at  least  to  Archie,  seemed  unlimited.    Almost 

72 


THE    OCTOPUS 

every  night  now  he  dined  with  Thole  and  was  a  wel- 
come guest  at  his  numerous  supper-parties.  Some 
nights  they  dined  alone,  at  other  times  Slade  was 
with  them,  and  often  Thole  had  as  his  guests  the  out- 
of-town  lambs  who  were  ready  to  be  robbed  of  their 
golden  fleece.  In  Thole's  manner  of  winning  these 
men  over  as  investors  in  his  enterprises  there  was  much 
that  Sheldon  resented.  He  knew  that  many  of  these 
ventures  could  result  in  profit  to  his  employer  only, 
but  the  worldly-wise  Slade  had  assured  him  over  and 
over  again  that  Thole's  methods  were  the  modern 
methods  of  business  and  practised  by  all  successful 
promoters  and  financiers.  It  was  only  at  the  hour 
before  dinner  when  Sheldon  wrote  his  daily  letter  to 
Dunham  -that  he  ever  questioned  the  moral  side  of 
the  day's  work.  The  changes  that  had  come  so 
rapidly  into  his  life  seemed  to  leave  him  little  of  which 
he  could  write  to  his  mother,  but  for  this  he  com- 
forted himself  with  the  thought  that  she  was  of 
another  generation  and  was  quite  incapable  of  under- 
standing the  kind  of  life  that  stood  for  modern  suc- 
cess. Further  to  moderate  his  feelings  of  distrust 
in  himself  and  his  new  life  was  his  real  admiration 
for  the  tremendous  force  and  the  subtle  craftiness  of 
the  man  who  now  controlled  him,  because,  despised 

73 


THE    OCTOPUS 

as  he  may  have  been,  Thole's  daring  had  made  him 
a  giant  in  a  city  where  the  power  of  money  is  the 
goal  of  so  many  men.  The  door  to  the  particular 
society  in  which  Thole  moved  once  opened  to  him, 
Sheldon  found  the  rest  easy  enough.  The  language 
of  the  men,  which  never  extended  beyond  the  stock- 
market  and  the  gossip  of  Broadway,  was  not  difficult 
to  speak,  and  the  women,  however  dull  they  might  be, 
were  always  affable.  Indeed,  the  young  man  from 
the  country,  with  his  good  looks  and  frank  manner 
and  his  clean,  fresh  point  of  view,  was  universally 
regarded  as  a  most  welcome  change  from  the  average 
bored  New-Yorker,  and  in  consequence  Archie  was 
received  by  the  ladies  of  Thole's  world  with  flattering 
favor. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Miss  Fannie  Brugiere  on  the 
occasion  of  a  supper-party  at  which  Sheldon  was 
not  present,  "I  really  wonder  what  makes  that 
young  man  so  extremely  popular  with  our  set?" 

"I  know,"  suggested  Lillian  Lester.  "It's  because 
he  hasn't  taken  that  New  York  poison  that  worries 
Thole  such  a  lot,  and,  incidentally,  he  treats  every 
chorus  girl  as  if  she  were  a  duchess." 

Miss  Brugiere  smiled  at  her  friend  across  the 
table,  and  shook  her  head.  "You  might  be  right,  at 

74 


THE    OCTOPUS 

that,  Lillian,"  she  said,  "but  at  what  particular  part 
of  your  career  did  you  learn  how  duchesses  were 
treated?" 

"Duchesses!"  exclaimed  Miss  Lester.  "Didn't  I 
play  one  of  the  six  duchesses  in  'The  Earl  and 
the  Girl'?  Sure  I  know  how  the  Johnnies  treat 
duchesses." 

"No,  you  didn't,"  Miss  Brugiere  replied,  with  some 
little  show  of  annoyance.  "I  was  one  of  the  duch- 
esses ;  you  were  in  the  other  set  of  show-girls." 

"That's  right,"  Miss  Lester  agreed.  "I  remember 
now;  I  was  to  be  a  duchess,  and  then  Julian  took 
me  out  of  it  and  put  me  in  the  big  number — what 
did  they  call  it?— 'The  March  of  the  Cocottes'— I 
knew  I'd  learned  swell  manners  somewhere."  And 
then  the  conversation,  which  was  never  devoted  to 
any  one  topic  for  any  great  length  of  time,  changed 
to  detailed  descriptions  of  what  the  ladies  were  to 
wear  at  the  opening  of  the  Cafe  de  1'Opera. 

It  was  a  very  busy  life  that  Sheldon  enjoyed  now, 
filled  during  the  day  with  new  business  schemes  and 
at  night  with  many  new  faces.  For  a  time  it  amused 
him  greatly,  and  he  was  keenly  conscious  of  the 
delight  and  pleasure  that  this  constant  excitement 
and  change  afforded  him.  And  then,  as  he  gradually 

75 


THE    OCTOPUS 

became  a  fixed  spoke  in  this  particular  social  wheel 
of  New  York,  the  purely  physical  excitement  grad- 
ually faded  away,  and  the  former  pleasures  developed 
into  a  necessary  routine,  the  value  of  which  only 
occurred  to  him  when  short  business  trips  took  him 
away  from  town  and  deprived  him  of  it.  Thoughts 
of  Dunham  and  the  mother  who  had  once  meant 
everything  to  him  occupied  his  mind  but  little  now, 
and  his  letter  home  was  no  longer  included  in  the 
day's  routine.  For  a  period  of  time  these  omissions 
caused  him  moments  of  sincere  regret,  but  such  mo- 
ments became  more  and  more  infrequent  and  besides 
this  he  no  longer  seemed  capable  of  knowing  regret 
or  pleasure  or  any  other  feeling  with  the  same  depth 
that  he  had  formerly  known  it. 

The  four  months  that  he  had  spent  at  the  board- 
ing-house when  he  had  first  come  to  New  York  had 
been  long  forgotten  in  the  pleasant  warmth  of  his 
present  comfort.  It  was  a  chance  meeting  with 
Violet  Reinhardt  late  one  January  afternoon  in  Times 
Square  that  with  a  sudden  shock  recalled  him  to 
those  unhappy  days.  It  was  bitterly  cold,  and  he 
noticed  that  the  short  coat  the  girl  wore  was  very 
thin  and  frayed,  and  her  bare  hands  and  bloodless 
lips  looked  half  frozen  from  the  sharp  wind  that 

76 


THE    OCTOPUS 

blew  great  clouds  of  fine  dry  snow  across  the  open 
square. 

In  his  haste  to  get  out  of  the  storm  he  did  not 
recognize  her,  but  the  little  figure  stopped  before 
him,  and  hesitatingly  the  girl  put  out  her  hand.  He 
took  it  in  both  of  his  and  pressed  it  with  a  real 
warmth  of  feeling  at  which  even  he  himself  won- 
dered. 

"Hello !"  he  cried.  "I  am  glad  to  see  you  again. 
How  are  you?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled  as  cheerfully  as 
she  could.  "Oh,  I'm  all  right,  I  guess.'* 

He  still  held  her  right  hand,  but  with  her  left  she 
reached  up  and  brushed  the  snow  from  the  fur  collar 
of  his  overcoat.  "No  use  in  asking  you  how  you  are," 
she  said,  "you  with  your  sable  furs.  Things  must 
have  broken  pretty  good  for  you  since  you  quit  the 
boarding-house." 

"Oh,  pretty  well,  thank  you,"  he  laughed.  "Come 
in  to  Rector's  and  tell  me  all  about  yourself  and  the 
folks  at  the  boarding-house.  It's  only  a  step." 

She  glanced  down  at  her  worn  coat  and  short 
ragged  skirt.  "I'm  not  fit,"  she  said. 

Sheldon  tucked  her  hand  under  his  arm  and  led 
her  reluctantly  toward  the  restaurant.  It  was  just 

77 


THE    OCTOPUS 

past  five  o'clock,  and  the  big  brilliantly  lighted  room 
was  almost  deserted.  The  little  groups  of  idle,  black- 
coated  waiters  turned  to  look  in  wonder  at  Archie 
Sheldon's  new  girl  friend.  In  the  glare  of  her  pres- 
ent surroundings  she  looked  like  a  waif  rescued 
from  the  streets.  They  sat  at  a  little  side  table 
and,  with  a  funny  grimace,  Violet  began  to  warm 
her  half-frozen  fingers  under  the  rose-colored  lamp- 
shade. 

"Do  you  like  anything  better  than  champagne?" 
he  said. 

"Sure  not,  but  you  certainly  must  have  struck  it 
rich  to  be  buying  Tiffany  water  at  five  in  the  after- 
noon. There's  some  class  to  our  ex-boarder,  eh, 
what?" 

Sheldon  smiled  at  the  smiling  face  across  the  table. 
The  warmth  of  the  room  was  gradually  bringing  the 
color  back  to  her  cheeks,  and  her  big  eyes  were  fairly 
glistening  with  excitement. 

"This  is  a  very  unusual  event,"  he  explained  sol- 
emnly; "it's  a  reunion.  Now  tell  me  all  about  your- 
self." 

"It's  just  the  same — still  posing." 

"And  the  cough?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head,  and  the  sparkle  suddenly 
78 


THE    OCTOPUS 

faded  out  of  her  eyes.  "I  know  an  artist  who  is 
pretty  strong  with  a  specialist,  and  the  doc  promised 
to  give  me  his  honest  opinion  for  nothing.  It  was 
honest,  all  right.  He  sentenced  me  to  the  Adiron- 
dacks  for  a  whole  year." 

"Well,"  Archie  asked,  "what  are  you  going  to  do 
about  it?" 

"What  am  I  going  to  do  about  it?  He  might  as 
well  have  recommended  an  automobile  trip  to  Cali- 
fornia or  a  cruise  in  a  yacht  to  Monte  Carlo.  The 
cheapest  he  said  I  could  live  up  there  would  be  ten 
dollars  a  week,  and  where  can  I  get  the  five  hundred? 
Besides,  I'd  hate  to  be  away  from  the  big  town  a 
whole  year." 

"Don't  be  foolish,"  Sheldon  urged ;  "it  might  mean 
the  saving  of  your  life." 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  with  one 
nervous  gulp  emptied  her  glass  of  champagne.  "I 
don't  want  to  save  my  life,"  she  said,  "if  it  means 
living  in  the  Adirondacks.  Gee,  it  would  be  lonely 
up  there  and  everybody  sick  about  you!  I  want  to 
stay  where  people  are  jolly,  and  where  it's  warm  like 
it  is  in  here."  She  looked  up  and  smiled  with  un- 
derstanding. "Yes,  even  if  I  have  to  see  it  from 
the  streets." 

79 


THE    OCTOPUS 

"But  in  a  year  you  could  come  back  to  this — if 
this  is  what  you  want  so  much.  You'd  be  well  then 
and  able  to  enjoy  it." 

Sheldon  had  somehow  come  to  feel  that  the  chance 
meeting  of  this  afternoon  had  put  the  responsibility 
of  the  girl's  future  in  his  hands.  Five  hundred  dol- 
lars seemed  such  a  paltry  sum  to  stand  between  death 
and  a  human  life. 

"Suppose,"  he  said,  "that  I  could  get  you  the 
money  ?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  wide-eyed  wonder.  "I've 
known  men  to  offer  big  money  to  women  to  stay  in 
New  York  but  never  to  leave  it.  Don't  talk  foolish. 
Why  should  you  give  me  five  hundred?  That's 
enough  about  me — tell  me  some  of  the  scandal.  You 
seem  to  know  the  head  waiter,  and  look  as  if  you  were 
in  our  set." 

For  a  long  time  they  sat  there  talking  the  gossip 
of  the  stage  and  of  her  life  in  the  studios  and  at  the 
boarding-house,  and  then  the  people  began  to  arrive 
for  dinner,  and  the  gorgeous  clothes  of  some  of  the 
women  seemed  to  bring  Violet  to  the  sudden  decision 
that  her  hour  of  gaiety  was  at  an  end.  Sheldon  put 
her  in  a  taxicab,  gave  the  chauffeur  the  address,  and 
then,  as  he  said  good-by,  pressed  a  yellow  bill  into 

80 


THE    OCTOPUS 

the  girl's  hand.  "Pay  the  driver  with  that,'*  he 
said,  "and  good  luck  to  you." 

She  glanced  at  the  bill  and  waved  her  hand  to  him 
from  the  open  window.  "Thank  you,"  she  cried, 
"and  good  luck  to  you.  That  was  some  party." 

The  next  morning  Sheldon  went  to  Thole  and  told 
him  that  he  was  in  immediate  need  of  at  least  five 
hundred  dollars,  and  that  he  would  like  to  close  out 
their  joint  account,  which  already  showed  a  profit 
to  his  credit  much  greater  than  the  sum  needed. 
Late  that  afternoon  he  sent  the  money  with  a  care- 
fully worded  little  note  to  Miss  Reinhardt,  and  then 
he  went  to  his  rooms  and  for  a  long  time  sat  smoking 
before  the  open  fire.  There  was  a  great  warmth  of 
feeling  that  filled  his  whole  mind  and  his  body,  the 
glow  of  happiness  and  contentment  that  comes  after 
a  day  well  spent — a  happiness  that  he  had  not  known 
since  he  first  came  to  New  York.  In  his  own  way 
God  had  put  it  within  his  power  to  save  one  of 
God's  own  sparrows,  and  the  religion  which  his  mother 
had  taught  him  came  back  to  him  with  a  greai  force, 
and  he  was  very  grateful  for  the  chance  that  had 
come  to  him  to  do  good.  In  the  thrill  of  the  moment 
he  decided  that  he  would  go  on  doing  good  deeds, 
especially  to  "the  least  of  these,"  and  then  he  re- 

81 


THE    OCTOPUS 

membered  what  Thole  had  said  of  New  York  and 
how  he  had  called  it  an  octopus.  At  the  thought  of 
how  very  wrong  the  old  man  was  Sheldon  smiled  in- 
dulgently and,  as  if  in  denial  of  Thole's  cynical 
words,  slowly  shook  his  head  at  the  crackling  logs 
in  the  fireplace. 

The  next  day  he  returned  to  the  office  with  the 
same  warmth  of  feeling  in  his  heart  and  the  same 
determination  to  do  better  things — things  of  which 
he  could  write  to  his  mother  at  Dunham.  That  night 
he  dined  at  Martin's  with  Thple  and  Slade  and  sev- 
eral of  their  business  friends,  and  although  Sheldon 
was  generally  the  brightest  member  of  these  some- 
what sombre  dinner-parties,  both  Thole  and  his 
secretary  noticed  that  on  this  occasion  he  seemed 
particularly  happy  and  unusually  entertaining  to  the 
other  guests.  The  dinner  was  half  over  when  Slade, 
who  sat  facing  the  vestibule,  smiled  at  the  men  at 
the  table.  "Here  comes  something  new,"  he  whis- 
pered, "and  very  beautiful.  She  looks  like  the  Fol- 
lies of  1920." 

Sheldon  turned  with  the  others,  and  saw  Violet 
Reinhardt  and  a  man  just  entering  the  door  to  the 
dining-room.  Her  small  beautiful  figure  showed 
clearly  through  a  filmy  black  dress  with  golden 

82 


THE    OCTOPUS 

threads  running  through  it;  over  her  shoulders  she 
wore  a  rose-colored  cape,  and  the  masses  of  soft 
brown  hair  were  half  concealed  by  a  broad  black 
hat.  The  pretty  little  face  was  more  white  than 
even  its  natural  paleness,  but  the  cupid's-bow  lips 
were  scarlet  now,  and  the  contrast  was  at  least  won- 
derfully effective.  As  she  approached  Thole's  table 
she  smiled  at  Sheldon,  and  then  as  she  passed,  with 
much  bravado,  made  a  little  grimace  at  him.  The 
other  men  at  the  table  laughed  and  made  some  good- 
natured  remarks  about  his  beautiful  young  friend, 
but  Sheldon  was  looking  at  the  little  figure  sweeping 
down  the  aisle  between  the  rows  of  white  tables  and 
apparently  did  not  hear  them.  For  some  time  after- 
ward he  sat  silent,  his  fellow  guests  believing,  accord- 
ing to  their  Broadway  logic,  that  being  very  young 
he  was  probably  a  little  jealous  of  the  other  man. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  wondering  how  one  of 
God's  sparrows,  just  for  the  delight  of  putting  on 
gay  plumage  and  for  the  happiness  of  a  few  days  of 
warmth  and  ease,  and  for  a  few  days  of  a  certain 
kind  of  pleasure,  oould  sacrifice  a  whole  life;  and 
once  more,  but  in  quite  a  different  spirit  from  the 
last  time,  he  remembered  Thole's  words  about  the 
octopus. 

83 


THE    OCTOPUS 

From  the  gradual  breaking  up  of  his  faith  there 
still  remained  to  Archie  Sheldon  an  unshaken  belief 
in  two  people — his  mother  and  Thatcher  Thole — and 
it  rose  from  the  wreckage  like  the  two  splendid  spars 
of  a  stranded  ship.  Whatever  might  be  said  of  the 
personal  life  and  questionable  business  methods  of 
Thole,  he  had  been  to  him,  at  least,  all  that  a  man 
could  ask  or  hope  for  from  his  best  friend.  As  for 
his  mother,  the  broader  life  and  the  many,  many 
people  he  had  met  of  late  only  served  to  prove  how 
wonderful  a  woman  she  really  was.  For  the  first  time 
he  began  to  appreciate  the  unselfishness  of  her  love — 
how  she  had  toiled  and  suffered  to  make  his  life  happy, 
and  he  determined  that  some  day,  just  as  soon  as 
he  could  spare  the  time,  he  would  return  to  her  and 
tell  her  how  he  had  come  to  understand,  and  of  the 
great  depths  of  his  gratitude. 

For  Fannie  Brugiere  and  Lillian  Lester  and  their 
women  friends,  he  tried  to  find  their  excuse  in  the 
narrow,  cramped  life  of  the  small  towns  from  which 
they  came.  Had  he,  too,  not  left  his  home  in  the 
hope  of  finding  a  broader  life?  All  could  not  suc- 
ceed as  he  had  succeeded,  and  even  they  had  their 
own  code  of  morals  and,  for  the  most  part,  lived  up 
to  them.  In  her  own  way  Lillian  Lester  had  tried 

84 


THE    OCTOPUS 

very  hard  to  be  a  friend  to  him.  In  his  ignorance 
of  affairs  he  had  often  turned  to  her,  and  her  advice 
had  always  proved  sane  and  wise,  as  that  of  the 
woman  who  has  learned  her  knowledge  by  experience 
is  fairly  sure  to  be.  From  the  first  night  that  he 
had  met  her,  he  had  in  a  way  set  her  apart  from 
the  others.  Her  friendship  had  often  been  of  inesti- 
mable value  to  him,  and  sometimes  he  stopped  to  won- 
der just  how  long  such  a  friendship  could  remain 
only  a  friendship.  When  business  called  him  out  of 
town  it  was  only  to  Lillian  Lester  that  he  wrote 
amusing  letters  of  his  adventures.  It  was  Lillian 
Lester  to  whom  he  always  wired  asking  her  to  dine 
with  him  on  the  night  of  his  return,  and,  even  with 
his  conspicuous  lack  of  vanity,  he  could  not  ignore 
the  fact  that  the  girl  would  break  any  previous  en- 
gagement to  accept  these  invitations.  Down  in  his 
heart  he  was  sure  that  she  cared  for  him,  just  as  he 
was  sure  that  he  cared  for  her;  and  he  was  sorry, 
because  he  knew  that  when  love  comes  in  at  the  door, 
especially  the  door  of  the  particular  world  in  which 
they  both  lived,  then  friendship  is  pretty  sure  to  fly 
out  at  the  window.  With  all  the  unconventionality 
of  the  lives  of  the  people  about  him,  Sheldon  had  been 
true  to  certain  standards,  and  he  wanted  to  remain 

85 


THE    OCTOPUS 

time  to  them.  In  any  case,  he  was  sure  that  if  he 
was  to  sink  to  the  moral  level  of  his  friends  he  did 
not  want  it  to  be  through  the  only  one  of  them  all 
for  whom  he  really  cared. 

It  was  late  one  afternoon  when  Miss  Lester  had 
dropped  in  at  his  apartment,  as  she  did  very  often 
now,  for  a  half-hour's  chat  and  a  cup  of  tea.  Out- 
side it  was  snowing  and  was  bitterly  cold,  and  Shel- 
don was  very  grateful  and  touched  that  she  had 
cared  enough  to  see  him  to  leave  her  own  pleasant 
fireside  to  come  to  his.  The  frosty  air  had  given 
her  pale  cheeks  an  unusual  color,  her  eyes  were  shin- 
ing, and  never  before  had  her  flower-like  beauty 
seemed  so  exquisite  to  him  as  it  did  now.  With  a 
warmth  of  feeling  he  had  never  shown  before  he  put 
out  his  arms  to  her,  and  uttering  a  little  cry  of 
pleasure  she  ran  toward  him.  At  last  her  day  of 
victory  was  at  hand.  But  she  had  not  counted  on 
the  puritanical  teaching  that  still  held  him  in  its 
iron  grip,  for  instead  of  putting  his  arms  about  her, 
he  suddenly  remembered  himself,  and  gently  laying 
his  hands  on  her  shoulders,  kissed  her  on  her  cold 
forehead.  With  a  little  grimace  she  turned  from 
him  and,  refusing  his  help,  threw  off  her  heavy  coat 
and  dropped  into  a  low  chair  before  the  open  fire. 

86 


THE    OCTOPUS 

"I'm  done,"  she  said;  "you're  hopeless.  I  put  on 
the  very  best  clothes  I've  got  in  the  world,  come  all 
the  way  downtown  to  see  you,  look  just  as  pretty 
as  I  know  how,  and  the  best  I  get  is  the  kind  of 
kiss  you  would  give  your  great-grandmother.  I'm 
just  plain  discouraged.  Is  there  anything  that  will 
melt  you?" 

"Nothing  will  if  you  won't,"  he  said.  "The  water 
in  the  kettle  is  boiling.  You'd  better  make  the  tea." 

Lillian  pulled  herself  out  of  the  chair,  shrugged 
her  shoulders,  and  crossed  the  room  to  the  tea-table. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  begged,  "I'm  very  sorry,  especially 
to-day.  You  mayn't  believe  me,  but  I  was  never  so 
glad  to  see  any  one.  I  knew  I  was  to  see  you  to- 
night at  -Thole's  supper,  and  so  I  was  afraid  you 
wouldn't  come  this  afternoon." 

"Don't  mention  Thole  to  me,"  she  said  abruptly. 
"I'm  tired  of  him,  and  his  supper-parties.  Can't  you 
talk  about  our  own  troubles  just  for  once?" 

It  had  long  been  in  her  mind  to  say  what  she 
thought  of  Thole,  but  she  had  chosen  the  wrong 
moment,  and  Sheldon  came  quickly  to  the  defense 
of  his  employer. 

"Whatever  he  may  have  been  to  others,"  he  said 
hotly,  "he  has  been  mighty  good  to  you  and  me." 

87 


THE    OCTOPUS 

Miss  Lester  slowly  joined  the  tips  of  her  long 
white  fingers  and  looked  steadily  across  the  table 
into  Sheldon's  excited  eyes.  "Yes  and  no,  Archie," 
she  said  in  her  low,  soft  voice.  "I  amuse  him,  and 
you  are  of  great  service  to  him.  There  are  better 
things  for  a  woman  than  to  have  her  name  mixed 
up  with  Thatcher  Thole,  and  many  better  things  for 
a  man  than  to  be  known  as  'Thole's  fixer.'  Now  don't 
get  excited.  I'm  only  telling  you  this  for  your  own 
good.  Thole  is  no  saint." 

Sheldon  nervously  lighted  a  cigarette  and  going 
over  to  the  fireplace  stood  looking  at  the  calm,  lovely 
features  of  Miss  Lester.  When  he  spoke  it  was  with 
much  spirit.  "I  know  he's  no  saint,  nobody  knows  it 
better,  but  he's  taken  pretty  good  care  of  me.  I 
owe  him  a  lot  more  than  I  can  ever  pay." 

Miss  Lester  smiled  and  shook  her  pretty  blond 
curls.  "I  wouldn't  let  that  bother  me,"  she  said.  "If 
the  crowd  that  runs  after  Thole  were  the  best  crowd 
in  New  York  it  would  be  different,  but  it  isn't.  It's 
about  the  worst  crowd  outside  of  jail  in  the  city. 
You  are  the  only  gentleman,  if  I  may  use  the  expres- 
sion, on  his  entire  staff.  You  can  do  more  with  his 
clients  than  all  the  others  put  together.  All  the  men 
say  that,  and  I  know  that  half  the  women  who  go 

88 


THE    OCTOPUS 

to  his  parties  would  stay  away  if  they  didn't  know 
that  you  would  be  there.  Fannie  Brugiere  is  the 
only  girl  I  know  who  really  likes  Thole — at  least  I 
like  to  think  she  does.  The  trouble  with  you  is  that 
you  don't  know  who's  who  in  New  York.  You  began 
with  Thole,  and  he's  never  let  you  get  away.  The 
other  men  I  know,  for  instance,  and  to  whose  parties 
I  go,  are  gentlemen.  I  can't  introduce  you  to  them, 
because  that  wouldn't  do  you  any  more  good  than 
it  helps  you  to  be  known  as  a  friend  of  Thole.  Do 
you  think  these  men  would  go  to  one  of  his  suppers? 
They  play  with  the  same  women  he  does,  but  you 
bet  they  don't  know  hig  men  friends.  There's  some 
class  to  these  chaps,  they  belong  to  decent  clubs, 
and—  -"- 

Sheldon  suddenly  tossed  his  cigarette  into  the 
hearth.  "That'll  do,  Lillie,"  he  said,  and  there  was 
a  certain  finality  in  his  tone  that  made  the  girl  flush 
and  rise  quickly  to  her  feet. 

"It  was  for  your  own  good,  Archie." 

He  put  her  coat  on,  wrapped  her  fur  collar 
about  her  throat,  and  led  the  way  to  the  elevator. 
"Good-by,"  he  said.  "I  know  you  told  me  for  my 
own  good,  but  just  the  same  it  hurts.  He's  been 
like  a  father  to  me." 

89 


THE    OCTOPUS 

She  held   out  her   hand   to   him.      "Forgive  me. 

O 

Let's  be  friends  again." 

"Sure,  we're  the  best  of  friends.  Notwithstanding 
all  you  have  just  said,  I  suppose  I'll  meet  you  at 
Thole's  party  to-night.  You  know  we  are  to  dine 
at  Martin's  at  seven  thirty  sharp." 

"You  bet  I  will — rath-er,"  she  laughed.  "I  hear 
the  supper  is  going  to  be  a  wonder  even  for  Thole 
— music  and  vaudeville  stunts  and  all  kinds  of  added 
features.  Here's  the  elevator — au  revoir  till  seven 
thirty." 

This  party  of  Thole's  had  been  the  talk  of  the 
particular  set  in  which  he  moved  for  many  days.  It 
so  happened  that  two  musical  comedies  were  to  have 
their  New  York  opening  on  the  same  night,  and  the 
supper  was  given  in  honor  of  the  best  known  of  the 
show-girls  from  both  companies.  It  promised  in  all 
ways  to  be  a  beauty  contest  of  unusual  proportions, 
and  for  a  fortnight  Thole,  as  well  as  Slade  and 
Sheldon,  had  been  doing  everything  which  unlimited 
money,  with  the  aid  of  their  past  experience,  could 
do  to  make  the  party  worthy  of  the  occasion.  That 
none  of  the  guests  happened  to  have  speaking  parts 
in  either  of  the  new  productions  was  of  little  con- 

90 


THE    OCTOPUS 

sequence.  A  success  meant  that  they  would  remain 
in  town  indefinitely,  and  that  was  much  more  im- 
portant in  the  eyes  of  these  young  women  than  all 
the  laurel  wreaths  ever  placed  on  the  brow  of  a  great 
dramatic  artist. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  Fannie  Brugiere  and 
Lillian  Lester  were  to  dine  with  Thole  and  Sheldon 
and  Slade,  and  afterward  to  divide  the  evening  be- 
tween the  two  new  productions.  But  while  the  party 
was  waiting  for  Thole  at  the  restaurant,  he  telephoned 
that  he  had  to  go  up-town  on  an  unexpected  mission 
and  would  meet  them  later  at  the  theatre  or  at  his 
rooms  before  the  supper-party.  These  four,  having 
dined  and  seen  the  first  act  of  one  musical  comedy 
and  the  second  act  of  the  other,  hurried  to  Thole's 
apartment  to  be  sure  that  all  was  in  readiness  for 
the  supper.  The  walls  of  the  library  and  the  dining- 
room  had  been  draped  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor 
with  smilax,  and  through  these  dark-green  curtains 
of  foliage,  filling  the  room  with  their  faint  fragrance, 
many  little  incandescent  lights  twinkled  like  silver 
stars.  Fannie  Brugiere  and  Slade  were  in  the  din- 
ing-room still  discussing  some  of  the  minor  points 
of  the  supper  with  the  butler,  and  Archie  and  Lillian 
Lester  were  sitting  before  the  fire  in  the  study  wait- 

91 


THE    OCTOPUS 

ing  for  Thole.     It  was  nearly  time  for  the  other 
guests  to  arrive  when  he  hurried  in. 

"I'm  sorry  to  be  so  late,"  he  explained  quickly, 
"but  I've  been  having  a  long  rotten  evening  of  it, 
I  can  tell  you." 

A  servant  took  his  overcoat,  and  he  came  over  to 
the  fire  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  open  hearth. 

Miss  Lester,  from  her  low  deep  chair,  smiled  up 
at  his  drawn  features  and  worried  eyes.  "You  must 
have  had  a  bad  night  of  it.  You're  a  sight,  Thole, 
but  I  must  say  that  your  rooms  are  quite  lovely. 
They're  just  like  the  fairy  grotto  in  a  pantomime  or 
a  florist's  shop-window  around  Easter." 

Thole  looked  down  at  the  girl,  but  his  eyes  showed 
that  he  was  quite  unconscious  of  what  she  was  say- 
ing to  him.  Then  he  turned  to  Sheldon,  and  mois- 
tened his  dry  lips  and  laced  his  fingers  nervously 
behind  his  back.  "Archie,"  he  began.  "I'm  in  a 
mess." 

Miss  Lester  yawned,  and  stirred  uneasily  in  her 
chair.  "Shall  I  go  out?"  she  asked. 

Thole  continued  to  look  at  Sheldon.  "Do  as  you 
want,"  he  said  sharply,  and  by  way  of  reply  Miss 
Lester  sank  further  into  the  chair  and  daintily  rested 
her  yellow  satin  slippers  on  the  fender. 

92 


THE    OCTOPUS 

"I'm  in  a  devil  of  a  mess,"  Thole  went  on,  "and, 
Archie,  you've  got  to  get  me  out  of  it." 

Sheldon  nodded  and  smiled.  "I'd  be  only  too 
glad,"  he  said. 

"Do  you  remember  a  Mrs.  Steele,  who  dined  with 
us  one  night  at  Delmonico's?" 

"Perfectly — she  was  quite  beautiful." 

"Well,"  Thole  continued,  "she  used  to  live  over 
on  Riverside  Drive,  but  just  now  she  has  an  apart- 
ment at  the  Marie  Antoinette.  I've  seen  a  good  deal 
of  her  lately,  and  I  like  her  well  enough — in  fact, 
in  a  way  she's  very  necessary  to  me  just  now — and 
for  some  inane  reason  she's  taken  a  notion  to  me." 

Miss  Lester  laughed  aloud.  "Don't  fool  yourself, 
Thole.  It's  your  money." 

Thole  shook  his  tall  lanky  frame,  as  if  to  show  his 
indifference  to  the  girl's  words,  and  hurried  on.  "I 
went  up  to  her  place  last  night  to  take  her  to  dinner, 
and  as  usual  she  kept  me  waiting.  I  had  some  legal 
papers  to  read,  so  I  went  to  her  desk  and  looked 
them  over,  and  then  did  a  little  calculating.  Then 
she  came  in  suddenly,  and  in  my  hurry  I  picked  up 
the  business  papers,  but  forgot  a  couple  of  personal 
letters  I'd  left  lying  on  her  desk.  One  of  these  letters 
was  from  Fannie.  She  wrote  it  several  days  ago, 

93 


THE    OCTOPUS 

and  she  was  sore  at  the  time  and  accused  me  of  a 
lot  of  things  I  never  did,  and  to  make  matters  worse 
she  had  to  get  affectionate  toward  the  last.  It  seems 
that  the  maid  found  the  letter,  and  was  so  delighted 
with  it  that  this  morning  she  showed  it  to  Mrs.  Steele. 
Fortunately  there  was  no  envelope,  and  the  letter 
began  with  just  'Dearest'  or  'Darling'  or  some  foolish 
word,  so  there  was  no  way  of  proving  the  letter  was 
meant  for  me.  I  had  to  do  something  quickly,  and 
the  only  thing  I  could  think  of  was  to  tell  her  that 
it  was  written  to  you  and  that,  being  a  young  man 
without  much  experience,  you  had  brought  it  to  me 
for  advice,  and  that  I  had  taken  it  along  to  consider. 
I  don't  know  whether  she  really  believed  me  or  not, 
but  you've  got  to  go  up  there  to-morrow  morning 
and  square  me.  I  said  you'd  be  up  about  eleven 
o'clock." 

Sheldon,  his  lips  closed  tight,  stared  into  the  fire. 
"Just  what  was  in  the  letter?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  and  then  as  the  thought  first 
came  to  Thole  that  Archie  was  hesitating  in  his 
assent  to  do  his  bidding,  he  looked  evenly  into  the 
young  man's  eyes.  "I  don't  know,"  he  repeated, 
"and  furthermore  I  don't  care.  You  will  go  to  the 
Marie  Antoinette  to-morrow  at  eleven,  and  you  will 

94 


THE    OCTOPUS 

swear  that  that  letter  was  intended  for  you,  and  if 
it's  necessary  you  will  stand  for  everything  of  which 
Fannie  accused  me.  Now  I  hope  you  have  that 
straight.  I  probably  won't  have  a  chance  to  speak 
to  you  about  it  again  to-night.  I'm  going  now  to 
see  about  the  supper.  Don't  forget — eleven  to-mor- 
row morning." 

For  a  few  moments  Sheldon  and  Miss  Lester  sat 
silently  looking  at  the  crackling  logs,  and  then  the 
girl  pulled  herself  up  to  the  edge  of  the  chair  and 
rested  her  chin  between  her  palms. 

"You  aren't  thinking  of  standing  for  that,  are 
you?"  she  asked.  "I  saw  Fannie  the  day  she  wrote 
that  note,  and  what  she  said  to  Thole  was  probably 
something  fierce.  Why  should  you  be  the  goat?" 

Sheldon  flushed  scarlet,  and  looked  up  at  the 
pretty  pink-and- white  face  and  the  flashing  eyes. 
"Why  should  I  be  the  goat?"  he  repeated.  "Because 
— you  know  as  well  as  I  do.  Thole  isn't  the  man 
to  be  denied  anything — he'd  fire  me." 

"Well,"  the  girl  said  quickly,  "suppose  he  does? 
Then  you  can  start  again  with  a  decent  firm,  even 
if  you  don't  make  the  money  that  Thole  gives  you. 
It  would  be  worth  a  lot  for  you  to  work  with  white 
people  instead  of  crooks  like  him  and  his  shadow 

95 


THE    OCTOPUS 

Slade.  Promise  me  you'll  refuse  to  do  this  dirty 
trick  for  him.  Won't  you  please  promise  me, 
Archie?  Be  a  man !" 

She  held  out  her  hand,  and  he  took  it  and  pressed 
it  closely  in  his  own.  "I  don't  know,  Lillie,  I  don't 
know  yet.  It  means  so  very  much  to  me,  but  I'm 
beginning  to  understand.  Perhaps  you're  right; 
thank  you  anyhow." 

From  midnight  until  five  o'clock  the  next  morning 
the  supper  ran  its  riotous  course.  A  few  of  the 
guests  had  retreated  in  pairs  to  the  study  for  more 
intimate  tete-a-tetes,  the  vaudeville  performers  had 
concluded  their  "turns,"  and  the  members  of  the  band 
had  long  since  slipped  away  unnoticed.  The  shaded 
candles  of  the  candelabra  in  the  dining-room  had  died 
a  spluttering  death,  and  some  one  in  a  spirit  of 
elation  had  turned  on  the  electric  lights.  Through 
the  orange  globes  the  dull  lights  from  the  ceiling 
burned  their  way  through  the  hot,  smoke-laden  air 
down  to  the  remaining  guests  lounging  about  the 
table.  They  showed  the  white  necks  and  shoulders 
and  the  filmy  dresses  of  the  women,  the  long  table — 
a  confused  litter  of  tall  Venetian  glasses,  half-filled 
champagne  bottles,  women's  long  white  gloves  tied 

96 


THE    OCTOPUS 

into  knots,  and  everywhere  over  the  white  cloth, 
bunches  of  crushed  and  withering  flowers.  At  the 
head  of  the  table  sat  Thole,  the  butt  of  a  cigar 
gripped  between  his  teeth  and  his  clear  eyes  and  pale 
putty-colored  skin  a  marked  contrast  to  the  flushed 
faces  of  the  men  and  women  about  him. 

As  the  clock  struck  five,  Fannie  Brugiere,  who  sat 
at  his  right,  got  up,  and  the  rest  of  the  guests  ac- 
cepted her  action  as  a  signal  that  the  party  was  at 
an  end.  They  all  rose  at  the  same  time,  and  Thole 
had  already  started  with  Fannie  Brugiere  toward 
the  door  of  the  study  when  he  half  turned  to  Archie. 
"Don't  forget,"  he  said,  "that  you're  to  be  at  the 
Marie  Antoinette  at  eleven." 

There  was  something  in  Sheldon's  look  that  made 
Thole  stop.  "You  understand  that,  don't  you?" 
he  added. 

For  a  moment  Sheldon  looked  him  evenly  in  the 
eyes.  Then,  speaking  very  deliberately,  "I  find,  Mr. 
Thole,  that  I  can't  keep  that  engagement.  It  is 
quite  impossible,  quite." 

Thole  turned  and,  walking  back  to  the  table,  stood 
with  his  hands  resting  on  the  back  of  his  chair.  "I 
don't  think  I  quite  understand  you.  Do  you  mean 
that  you  won't  go?"  The  old  man's  voice  was  very 

97 


THE    OCTOPUS 

low,  but  it  had  a  metallic  ring  that  carried  to  the 
far  corners  of  the  big  room,  and  his  guests,  who 
had  started  to  leave,  stopped  suddenly  and  stared 
in  wide-eyed  wonder.  Archie  wgs  conscious  that 
Lillian  Lester  had  moved  very  close  to  his  side,  and 
he  felt  her  long  soft  fingers  close  tightly  over  his 
hand,  which  was  resting  on  the  edge  of  the  table. 
Through  the  smoky  air  he  could  see  Thole's  eyes 
burning  with  anger,  and  then  he  saw  Fannie  Bru- 
giere  walk  toward  Thole  and  put  her  arm  about 
his  shoulder  as  if  to  protect  him.  t 

Sheldon  pulled  himself  up  very  straight  and,  with 
a  futile  effort  to  smile,  glanced  at  the  scared,  silent 
faces  about  the  room,  and  then  he  turned  back  to 
Thole.  "I  mean,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  sounded  to 
him  as  if  some  one  else  were  talking  a  long  way  off, 
"I  mean  that  I  can't  do  what  you  ask.  I  mean  that 
I  am  done  with  you,  Mr.  Thole,  you  and  your  dirty 
work  forever." 

Thole's  face  went  quite  white,  and  his  long  bony 
fingers  clutched  at  the  back  of  the  chair.  "You 
cub!"  he  whispered.  "You  cur!" 

With  her  hand  still  on  Thole's  shoulder,  Fannie 
Brugiere  uttered  a  half-stifled  sob  and  then  suddenly 
leaned  far  over  the  table  toward  Sheldon.  "You," 

98 


THE    OCTOPUS 

she  cried  hysterically,  "you  refuse  anything  he  asks 
you  to  do?  Why,  you  can't  refuse." 

Sheldon  shifted  his  eyes  from  Thole  to  those  of 
the  woman.  "Why?"  he  asked.  "Why  can't  / 
refuse?" 

"Why?     Why,  because  he's  your  father." 

As  the  words  left  her  lips  Thole  swung  about  on 
her.  "How  dare  you  say  that?"  he  whispered. 
"How  dare  you?" 

For  a  moment  she  stepped  away  from  him  in 
apparent  fear,  but  her  courage  returned  to  her  as 
quickly  as  it  had  gone.  "Why  not?"  she  shouted. 
"Why  shouldn't  he  know  what  everybody  on  Broad- 
way has  known  for  months?  Is  he  so  much  better 
than  the  .rest  of  us?" 

Her  voice  kept  on  ringing  in  his  ears  for  a  long 
time,  and  then  it  seemed  to  Sheldon  that  the  room 
had  become  suddenly  quite  silent,  and  when  he  opened 
his  eyes  again  he  found  that  he  was  still  standing  in 
the  same  place  with  his  finger-tips  resting  on  the  edge 
of  the  table.  There  was  no  one  with  him  now  except 
Lillian  Lester,  who  was  standing  in  the  doorway. 
Through  the  gray-blue  tobacco  smoke  he  recognized 
her  by  her  yellow  dress,  and  then  as  everything  be- 
came clearer  to  him  he  saw  her  white  shoulders  and 

99 


THE    OCTOPUS 

bare  arms  and  her  pretty  fluffy  golden  hair  and  her 
blue  eyes,  which  were  wet  with  tears.  He  saw  her 
lips  move  as  if  she  were  trying  to  say  something, 
but  no  words  reached  him ;  nothing  but  a  woman's 
sob,  and  then  with  her  head  bowed  she  went  out  the 
door,  and  left  him  alone.  He  reached  out  his  hand 
and,  picking  up  a  glass  filled  with  champagne,  held 
it  to  his  lips  until  he  had  drunk  it  all.  After  that 
his  mind  became  quite  clear  again;  he  remembered 
everything  that  had  happened  and  just  how  it  had 
happened,  and  he  threw  back  his  shoulders  and  started 
to  move  slowly  toward  the  door  which  led  to  the 
study.  He  knew  that  he  would  find  Thole  waiting 
for  him,  and  that  they  would  be  alone. 

Thole  was  standing  before  the  fireplace,  the  long, 
lanky  figure  in  black  an  absurd  contrast  to  the  walls 
of  delicate,  fragrant  smilax  and  the  fragile  roses 
which  surrounded  him  on  every  side.  Sheldon  glanced 
at  him,  and  then  crossed  the  room  to  one  of  the  high 
French  windows  that  looked  out  on  the  deserted  park. 
His  brain  was  absolutely  clear  now,  and  he  was  sur- 
prised to  find  that  he  felt  no  anger  for  Thole,  not 
even  a  mild  animus,  nothing  but  contempt  and  a 
certain  kind  of  pity  for  the  man  who  had  so  recently 
controlled  him  body  and  soul.  The  tragedy  of  the 

100 


THE    OCTOPUS 

last  few  minutes  had  reversed  their  positions ;  it  was 
he  who  was  the  master  now. 

Thole  it  was  who  broke  the  long  silence.  "Well," 
he  asked  querulously,  "have  you  nothing  to  say?" 

Sheldon  turned  from  the  window  and  looked  at 
the  gaunt  figure  before  the  fireplace.  There  was  no 
longer  any  fire  in  Thole's  eyes,  and  his  whole  frame 
seemed  to  sag  from  head  to  foot;  for  the  moment 
the  old  spirit  had  quite  gone  out  of  him. 

"I  don't  think  I  have  anything  to  say,"  Sheldon 
said.  "I  don't  believe  that  there  is  anything  to  be 
said  or  to  be  done.  It's  finished." 

Thole  shifted  his  feet  uneasily  and  turned  the  now 
mild  gray  eyes  toward  his  son.  "You  are  going 
back  to — to  her?" 

"Of  course.  What  else  is  there  for  me  to  do,  now 
that  I  know  how  much  she  needs  me?" 

Thole  nodded.  "Of  course,"  he  muttered,  "of 
course." 

"I  can  at  least  try  to  make  up  in  a  way,"  Sheldon 
went  on,  "for  all  that  she  has  suffered  from  you. 
That  will  be  something  worth  while  anyhow — cer- 
tainly better  than  to  remain  here  as  you  must  remain, 
discredited  by  men  and  a  joke  among  the  women  you 
call  your  friends." 

101 


THE    OCTOPUS 

"I  wish  you'd  sit  down  a  minute,"  Thole  said  dog- 
gedly. "I've  got  to  tell  you  this  before  you  go. 
I've  got  to  tell  you,  because  I'd  rather  and,  perhaps, 
you'd  rather  hear  it  from  me  than  from  her." 

Sheldon  sat  on  the  arm  of  a  big  leather  chair  and, 
by  way  of  assent,  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

Once  more  Thole  shifted  his  feet  uneasily  and  be- 
gan: "I  first  knew  your  mother  not  very  long  after 
her  husband's  death.  You  mayn't  know  it,  but  he'd 
never  treated  her  particularly  well,  and  when  he 
died  he  left  her  destitute,  penniless,  and  she  was  very 
lonely.  Then  I  came  along,  and  we  were  together 
a  great  deal.  I'd  come  from  up  state,  and  I  didn't 
know  many  people,  and  the  only  trouble  was  that 
almost  as  soon  as  I  started  in  I  began  to  make 
money.  The  game  was  a  good  deal  easier  then  than 
it  is  now.  I  guess  she  must  have  been  fond  of  me 
and  sort  of  proud  of  my  success,  and  it  was  always 
understood  that  we  were  going  to  be  married,  and 
then  when  the  time  came  that  I  should  have  made 
good  I  didn't  do  it.  I'd  begun  to  get  the  fever  for 
money  and  the  power  that  money  brings,  and  I  sup- 
pose I  was  just  money-mad  like  so  many  people  get 
in  New  York.  I  was  afraid  that  a  wife  and  a  family 
would  interfere  with  my  plans  and  interfere  in  my 

102 


THE    OCTOPUS 

success;  of  course  it  would  probably  have  been  the 
making  of  me,  but  I  couldn't  see  it  that  way  then. 
I  was  just  a  common,  selfish  brute,  with  an  unlimited 
greed  for  money,  and  ready  to  tramp  down  anything 
that  stood  in  my  way  of  getting  it.  That  was  just 
about  the  way  of  it,  and  even  when  you  were  born,  I 
couldn't  do  the  decent  thing.  It  was  a  little  after 
that  that  your  mother  moved  to  Dunham,  where  no 
one  knew  her  or  anything  about  her,  and  where  there 
was  no  reason  for  any  one  to  believe  that  you  were 
not  her  husband's  child." 

Sheldon  stood  up,  and  for  a  few  moments  Thole's 
eyes  followed  the  younger  man  in  silence  as  he  paced 
slowly  up  and  down  the  room.  Then  in  the  same 
dogged  voice  he  went  on  again: 

"I'm  not  trying  to  excuse  myself — I  deserted  her 
all  right,  and  I  guess  I  got  my  punishment.  As  you 
say,  you  can  go  back  to  her,  and  as  you  say,  too, 
I've  got  to  stay  on  here,  discredited  and  a  joke, 
and  believe  me,  so  long  as  I  live,  I  won't  forget  that 
it  was  my  own  son  who  said  that  to  me.  You  got 
your  revenge  right  there.  There's  never  been  a  day 
for  the  last  twenty  years — and  you  can  believe  it  or 
not,  but  it's  God's  truth — when  I  wouldn't  have  gone 
back  to  her.  But  she  wasn't  like  any  other  woman 

103 


THE    OCTOPUS 

I  ever  knew.  From  the  day  I  told  her  I  couldn't 
or  wouldn't  marry  her  she's  never  spoken  to  me  or 
let  me  see  her.  And  what  hurt  most  was  that  she 
wouldn't  let  me  do  anything  to  help  her.  She  re- 
turned the  drafts  I  sent  her,  and  after  a  while  she 
sent  back  my  letters  unopened.  I —  "  Thole  stopped 
suddenly  and  slowly  pressed  one  clenched  hand  into 
the  open  palm  of  the  other.  "I  guess  that's  all,"  he 
added  impotently.  "She's  suffered  and  I've  suffered, 
and  now  it  looks  as  if  you  were  to  get  yours.  I 
tell  you  it's  the  call  of  this  big  rotten  town.  She 
heard  it  and  I  heard  it,  and  then  it  came  your  turn. 
That's  the  way  of  it — I've  watched  'em  for  a  good 
many  years,  the  young  men  and  the  young  women 
from  the  little  towns  coming  here  to  fight  New  York 
with  their  puny  bodies  and  their  puny  brains.  I've 
watched  'em  by  the  dozens  flounder  about  for  a 
while  and  then  sink  and  not  leave  enough  for  a  de- 
cent funeral." 

Sheldon  stopped  pacing  up  and  down  the  room 
and  turning  suddenly  faced  his  father.  "Is  that 
all?"  he  asked  brusquely. 

The  older  man  drew  back  as  if  the  boy  had  struck 
him.  "Why,  yes,  Archie,"  he  said,  "I  guess  that's 
all.  You  mean  you're  going  now?" 

104 


THE    OCTOPUS 

"Yes." 

"And  there's  nothing  I  can  do?"  Thole  asked. 

"Nothing,  thank  God.  I  only  wish  that  there 
was  something  I  could  do  or  say  to  make  you  suffer 
as  you  have  made  me  suffer." 

The  hard  grim  features  of  Thole  relaxed  into  some- 
thing that  resembled  a  smile.  "My  boy — Archie," 
he  said,  and  his  voice  had  suddenly  become  very  low, 
even  gentle,  "if  you  were  older  and  if  you  had  ever 
had  a  son  of  your  own,  you  wouldn't  worry  about 
how  you  could  hurt  me.  You  would  understand  that 
all  you  had  to  do  was  just  what  you  are  doing  now 
— walking  out  of  this  room  for  the  last  time  without 
even  giving  me  your  hand  or  saying  good-by." 

Thole  waited  until  he  had  heard  the  outer  door 
close  on  his  son  for  the  last  time,  and  then  it  suddenly 
occurred  to  him  that  it  was  very  chilly  in  the  room, 
and  he  turned  to  find  that  there  was  nothing  in  the 
fireplace  but  gray  ashes.  He  drew  his  tall  frame 
erect  and  looked  about  at  the  dishevelled  room.  To 
his  eyes  the  roses  appeared  faded  and  unlovely,  and 
the  curtains  of  smilax  as  if  they  were  not  real  but 
some  tawdry  device  of  a  scene  on  the  stage.  With 
one  hand  he  reached  out,  and,  seizing  a  few  of  the 
green  fragile  strands,  tore  them  from  their  fasten- 

105 


THE    OCTOPUS 

ings,  and,  throwing  them  to  the  floor,  crushed  them 
under  his  foot.  Moving  very  slowly,  he  crossed  the 
room  to  the  window.  To  the  east  the  dawn  of  the 
new  day  had  streaked  the  purple  sky  with  long  nar- 
row ribbons  of  gray  and  pink  lights;  down  in  the 
park  the  lamps  of  a  taxicab  swung  in  a  great  arc 
and  then  disappeared  behind  a  black  screen  of  foli- 
age; to  the  north  he  could  see  the  lights  twinkling 
in  the  upper  story  of  a  building  that  rose  high  above 
the  trees;  but  to  the  eyes  of  Thole  the  city  lay  be- 
fore him,  a  great  sleeping  octopus,  its  unclean  body 
calmly  resting  for  the  work  of  the  coming  day.  If 
there  was  anything  of  beauty  there  he,  at  least,  had 
failed  to  find  it ;  for  had  it  not  this  night,  in  spite 
of  all  his  money  and  his  power,  taken  from  him 
his  one  last  chance  of  happiness?  And  then  it  came 
to  him  that  in  a  few  hours  the  battle  would  be  on 
again,  and  that  he  must  have  sleep,  because  he  would 
have  to  be  in  his  place  and  ready.  And,  so,  he  turned 
from  the  window  and  the  sleeping  city  and,  with  slow, 
unsteady  steps,  moved  toward  his  own  room. 


106 


GOD'S   MATERIAL 

DAVID  PRINDLE  gathered  up  his  change  and  his 
monthly  commutation  ticket  and,  through  the  grated 
window,  smiled  at  the  station  agent.  David  said: 
"A  fine  morning  for  the  first  of  December,"  but  the 
thought  in  his  mind  was :  "I  have  now  in  my  pocket 
two  dollars,  and  this  added  to  the  seventy  dollars 
I  have  in  bank  will  not  pay  the  monthly  bills,  and  I 
wonder  which  of  the  monthly  bills  I  can  best  leave 
unpaid." 

For  fiye  years  now,  on  the  first  day  of  every 
month,  Prindle  had  been  facing  the  same  question, 
whether  it  was  better  to  rob  Peter  and  pay  Paul 
or  Pay  Peter  and  let  Paul  wait.  Every  morning  as 
he  sat  with  his  felloAV  commuters  and  smoked  his  pipe 
and  tried  to  read  his  newspaper  his  thoughts  were 
seldom  far  afield  from  the  question  of  the  high  cost 
of  living.  The  same  thoughts  usually  filled  his  mind 
on  the  return  trip,  but  no  sooner  had  he  left  the 
stuffy,  smoke-ridden  car  than  such  gloomy  reveries 
took  instant  flight.  His  head  held  high,  his  shoul- 

107 


GOD'S    MATERIAL 

ders  thrown  back,  with  long,  swinging  strides  he 
swung  along  the  broad  country  road  that  led  to 
his  home.  And  such  a  home !  The  very  first  glimpse 
that  he  caught  of  the  white  clapboard  farmhouse 
never  failed  to  cause  the  same  old  thrill.  Evil  re- 
flections concerning  unpaid  bills,  the  long,  dull  rou- 
tine of  the  day's  work,  the  years  of  incessant  strug- 
gle were  forgotten,  and  the  only  thoughts  that  filled 
his  tired,  overworked  brain  were  of  the  little  house 
hidden  among  the  trees  and  the  figure  of  the  girl 
sure  to  be  waiting  for  him  before  the  open  door. 
That  was  about  all  there  was  in  David's  life — this 
one  girl  and  the  open  door.  And  so  intertwined 
were  they  in  his  heart  and  in  his  mind  that  they 
seemed  like  two  happy  dreams  constantly  fading  one 
into  another,  both  very  distinct  and  quite  insepara- 
ble. For  it  was  in  this  same  farmhouse  that  David 
and  his  beloved  Angela  had  begun  their  married  life. 
It  was  the  only  home  they  had  ever  known  together, 
and  (with  the  exception  of  a  new  roof  and  an  addi- 
tion which  was  to  contain  an  oak-panelled  library 
and  a  pink-and-gold  bedroom  for  Angela)  it  was 
the  only  home  they  ever  wanted  to  know. 

For  one  year  David  had  paid  a  modest  rental, 
but  at  the  end  of  that  time,  so  satisfied  were  he  and 

108 


GOD'S    MATERIAL 

Angela  that  it  was  the  best  home  in  the  world,  they 
decided  to  buy  the  place  outright.  Therefore,  hav- 
ing carefully  counted  their  capital  and  such  pros- 
pects as  the  future  might  have  in  store  for  them, 
they  called  on  the  agent  of  the  property  and  briefly 
told  him  of  their  heart's  desire.  The  agent  admitted 
that  the  owner  had  no  possible  use  for  the  house 
himself  and  would  no  doubt  be  glad  to  part  with  it 
on  easy  terms.  These  surmises  proved  correct,  and 
in  a  week's  time  David  and  Angela  once  more  met 
at  the  agent's  office  to  sign  the  all-important  papers. 

The  agent  sat  behind  his  flat  desk,  smiled  a  little 
mysteriously,  and  with  one  finger  tapped  the  long, 
red-sealed  deeds  that  lay  before  him. 

"Mr.  Dolliver,  whom  I  represent,"  he  began,  "is 
willing  to  accede  to  the  terms  that  you  suggest. 
My  client,  however  reluctantly,  must  insist  on  one 
condition  which  it  is  quite  possible  may  deter  you 
from  buying  the  property." 

David  and  Angela  exchanged  swift,  unhappy 
glances,  and  then  David  nodded  for  the  lawyer  to 
continue. 

"The  original  owner  of  the  house,  one  Abraham 
Enright,  decreed  in  his  will  that  so  long  as  the  house 
lasted  the  eldest  male  member  of  the  family  of  En- 

109 


GOD'S    MATERIAL 

right  should  always  have  the  privilege  of  occupying 
a  certain  room  for  so  long  a  period  as  he  saw  fit. 
That  was  a  long  time  ago — at  least  three  generations 
— and  although  the  property  has  changed  hands  sev- 
eral times  that  same  clause  has  always  appeared  in 
the  deed.  The  eldest  living  descendant  of  Abraham 
Enright,  if  there  is  one,  still  has  the  right  to  occupy 
that  room.  I  believe  it  is  the  one  at  the  northern 
end  of  the  house  on  the  second  floor." 

"Then,  as  I  understand  it,"  said  David,  "although 
we  own  the  house  we  are  liable  at  any  time  to  have 
a  stranger  wander  in  and  settle  down  in  our  only 
spare  room,  and  perhaps  stay  there  until  he  dies?" 

"Exactly,"  said  the  agent.  "But  I  think  it  is  only 
fair  to  say  that  since  the  condition  was  first  made 
no  one,  so  far  as  is  known,  has  ever  taken  advantage 
of  the  privilege." 

For  a  few  tense  moments  David  alternately  turned 
his  glance  from  the  keen,  smiling  eyes  of  the  lawyer 
to  the  deeds,  and  then  back  to  the  lawyer. 

"Do  you  not  think,"  he  suggested,  "if  I  saw  your 
client  and  explained  how " 

"Not  a  chance  in  the  world,"  the  lawyer  inter- 
rupted. "To  be  quite  frank  with  you,  I  don't  be- 
lieve he  cares  very  much  whether  he  sells  the  property 

110 


GOD'S    MATERIAL 

or  not.  Personally,  and  I  speak  from  a  long  expe- 
rience, I  consider  the  terms,  in  spite  of  this  unusual 
condition,  very  favorable  to  you." 

David  glanced  at  Angela  and  saw  tears  slowly 
ebbing  into  the  eyes  that  he  loved  the  best  in  all 
the  world.  Without  another  word  he  reached  for 
the  deeds  and  quickly  seized  the  pen  the  lawyer  prof- 
fered him.  Even  with  less  hesitation  Angela  affixed 
her  signature,  and  the  little  farmhouse,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  its  one  absurd  and  annoying  condition, 
was  their  very  own. 

When  David  and  Angela  had  once  more  returned 
home  they  spent  the  evening  in  speculating  on  the 
probable  personality,  condition  of  life,  and  habits  of 
the  stranger  who  at  any  moment  might  demand  a 
place  in  their  household.  The  name  of  the  creator 
of  the  unhappy  condition  was  as  unknown  to  them 
as  was  that  of  the  present  head  of  the  house  of 
Enright.  They  speculated  about  him  that  particu- 
lar night  and  for  the  next  five  years,  with  occasional 
brief  lapses,  they  continued  to  speculate  about  him. 
The  oldest  living  inhabitant  of  the  neighborhood 
could  not  remember  an  Abraham  Enright  and  where 
he  had  gone  and  who  were  his  heirs  no  one  knew. 
But  to  David  and  Angela  the  present  heir  was  a  very 

111 


GOD'S    MATERIAL 

real  person  and  a  distinct  menace  to  their  lives.  Dur- 
ing the  five  years  of  speculation  their  composite 
guesses  had  assumed  the  form  and  character  of  a 
real  individual.  According  to  this  gradually  con- 
ceived idea  the  mysterious  stranger  who  was  legally 
entitled  to  upset  their  lives  was  a  rather  elderly 
person  with  few  humane  or  kindly  instincts.  Also, 
although  David  and  Angela  always  referred  to  him 
as  "the  family  skeleton,"  he  was  very  short  and 
stout,  had  a  stubby,  iron-gray  beard  and  a  most 
ungovernable  temper.  This  in  their  hours  of  depres- 
sion was  the  ogre  they  always  saw.  They  pictured 
the  roly-poly  form  stumping  up  the  road ;  they  saw 
him  standing  in  the  doorway  gruffly  demanding  en- 
trance; and  they  saw  him  in  their  one  spare  bed- 
room— irritable,  gouty,  and,  with  his  meagre,  un- 
couth belongings,  settled  there  for  life.  It  was  for 
the  latter  reason,  perhaps,  that  of  all  the  little  home 
the  spare  room  alone  failed  to  grow  in  beauty  and 
comfort.  A  typical  farmhouse  bedroom,  cold,  gray, 
and  cheerless  they  had  found  it,  and  cold,  gray,  and 
cheerless  Angela  and  David  had  allowed  it  to  remain. 
It  was  as  if  they  had  prepared  a  vault  to  receive 
the  remains  of  all  their  happiest  and  most  cherished 
hopes. 

112 


GOD'S    MATERIAL 

However,  apart  from  the  always  expected  visit 
from  the  unwelcome  guest,  Angela  and  David  had 
known  five  years  of  well-nigh  perfect  content.  It  is 
true  that  to  keep  the  place  in  proper  repair,  to  add 
to  its  simple  comforts,  to  make  Angela's  flower-gar- 
den worthy  of  its  lovely  mistress  had  been  no  easy 
task,  and  had  been  accomplished  not  without  many 
unmentioned  deeds  of  sacrifice  and  privation.  For 
ten  years  David  had  worked  hard  and  faithfully  for 
the  company  with  whom  he  had  found  his  first  em- 
ployment, but,  fortunately  or  unfortunately,  David 
had  been  born  with  a  nature  which  contained  sweet- 
ness and  kindliness  out  of  all  proportion  to  aggres- 
siveness or  business  acumen.  Therefore,  as  is  the 
usual  fate,  of  such  personalities,  he  had  become  but 
a  human  cog  in  a  great  human  wheel  that  with  each 
revolution  ground  out  many  dollars  for  its  owners. 
For  ten  years  David  had  served  his  masters  well  and 
just  as  far  as  he  was  allowed  to  serve  them,  and, 
then,  when  he  had  reached  the  office  on  the  morning 
of  that  first  day  of  December,  he  found  the  place 
filled  with  whispered  rumors  that  chilled  the  hearts 
of  the  human  cogs.  Big  Business  had  laid  its  steel 
hand  on  the  wheel  of  human  cogs  and  hereafter  it 
was  to  play  but  a  minor  part  in  a  really  great  ma- 

113 


GOD'S    MATERIAL 

chine.  David  and  all  the  other  human  cogs  knew 
that  Big  Business  brought  with  it  sons  and  nephews 
and  cousins,  all  of  whom  must  have  jobs,  and,  late 
that  same  afternoon,  the  fears  of  David,  at  least, 
proved  correct. 

With  a  heavy  heart  he  alighted  from  the  train 
and  with  feet  of  lead  he  started  to  plod  wearily  over 
the  brittle,  frozen  roads  to  his  home.  After  ten  long 
years!  But  the  thought  that  was  uppermost  in 
David's  mind  was  not  one  of  reproach  against  the 
company  but  against  himself.  Human  cogs  of  ten 
years'  standing  could  not  easily  find  new  positions, 
and  David  knew  this  as  well  as  he  knew  that  with 
all  the  needs  of  his  home  pressing  upon  him  he  had 
been  unable  to  lay  by.  During  the  period  of  their 
married  life  David  had  held  no  secret  from  his  wife, 
and  now,  more  than  ever  before,  he  needed  the  help 
of  her  love  and  of  her  fine,  young  courage.  They 
sat  down  before  the  wood  fire  in  the  little  sitting- 
room,  and  with  no  word  of  bitterness  David  told  the 
tragedy  that  had  come  into  their  lives.  After  he  had 
finished  the  two  lovers  sat  in  silence.  Gazing  into 
the  crackling  fire,  her  chin  resting  in  the  palm  of 
one  hand,  Angela  stretched  out  her  other  hand  until 
it  lay  in  that  of  her  husband.  For  a  few  moments 

114 


GOD'S    MATERIAL 

they  remained  thus,  and  then,  suddenly,  they  were 
aroused  from  their  unhappy  reveries  by  the  inces- 
sant tooting  of  an  automobile  horn,  evidently  clam- 
oring for  admission  at  their  garden  gate. 

"Delmonico's,"  said  Johnny  Enright  to  his  chauf- 
fer, and,  with  a  dolorous  sigh  of  discontent,  fell  back 
into  the  deep-cushioned  seat  of  his  limousine.  To 
be  whisked  away  in  such  a  gorgeous,  purple-lined 
chariot  to  a  banquet  at  Delmonico's  might  have 
brought  a  smile  of  anticipatory  pleasure  to  some 
young  men,  but  not  to  Johnny  Enright.  Had  it 
been  a  dinner  with  a  few  congenial  friends,  that 
would  have  been  a  very  different  matter,  but  of  all 
the  chores,  that  his  business  life  very  occasionally 
forced  upon  him,  the  annual  banquet  given  to  the 
big  men  in  his  employ  bored  him  the  most.  He  hated 
the  dinner  with  its  innumerable  courses,  he  hated 
the  ostentatious  souvenirs,  the  long-winded  speeches, 
and,  most  of  all,  he  hated  the  speech  that  he  himself 
had  to  make.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  latter  he 
could  at  least  have  partially  forgotten  his  dislike  of 
the  occasion  by  indulging  in  large  libations  of  cham- 
pagne. But  as  vice-president  and  the  practical 
owner  of  the  Universal  Milk  Company  it  was  neces- 

115 


GOD'S    MATERIAL 

sary  for  him  to  appear  at  his  very  best  when  the 
time  came  for  him  to  address  the  officers  and  the  dis- 
trict managers  of  that  eminently  successful  concern. 
The  banquet  itself  proved  to  be  very  much  like 
every  other  banquet,  whether  the  price  is  five  dollars 
a  plate  or  five  times  that  amount.  The  dinner  proper 
once  over,  the  old  gentlemen  at  the  speakers'  table, 
one  by  one,  arose  and  gravely  threw  verbal  bouquets 
at  every  one  present,  including  themselves.  Johnny 
sat  between  two  of  these  elderly,  bearded  persons 
and  dreamily  wondered  whether  he  would  spend  the 
next  day  in  town  or  go  to  Rye  to  play  golf.  And 
then  he  was  suddenly  aroused  from  his  revery  by  a 
sudden  break  in  the  oratory  which  at  least  to  En- 
right  seemed  to  have  been  rumbling  on  for  hours. 
A  little  way  down  the  table  a  young  man  with  a 
Henry  Clay  face  and  a  rarely  sympathetic  voice  was 
telling  his  elders  something  of  the  worth  of  Abraham 
Enright,  whose  sagacity  and  high  principles  had 
brought  the  Universal  Milk  Company  into  being  and 
to  whom  every  man  present  owed  a  debt  of  gratitude 
that  none  could  ever  hope  to  pay.  From  Abraham 
Enright  the  young  and  convincing  orator  passed  to 
his  son,  John  Enright,  and,  having  properly  crowned 
him  with  laurel,  proceeded  to  decorate  the  present 

116 


GOD'S    MATERIAL 

head  of  the  house  in  a  similar  manner.  With  a 
flushed  face  and  downcast  eyes  Johnny  heard  himself 
credited  with  a  list  of  virtues  to  not  one  of  which 
could  he  possibly  lay  claim.  A  few  minutes  later, 
confused  and  still  blushing,  Johnny  himself  arose  and 
heartily  thanked  the  young  man  for  mentioning  all 
the  things  that  he  should  be  and  wasn't,  but  prom- 
ised faithfully  that  the  hint  should  not  go  unheeded. 
To  his  great  relief  the  banquet  came  to  a  fairly  early 
end,  the  mass  of  black  coats  and  white  shirt-fronts 
at  last  arose,  disintegrated,  and  finally  disappeared. 
With  a  huge  sigh  Johnny  hustled  into  a  fur  coat, 
and,  with  all  possible  despatch,  started  for  the  near- 
est cabaret. 

It  was  early  afternoon  on  the  following  day  when 
Enright  awoke  from  a  heavy  sleep  and  rang  for  his 
servant.  The  strain  of  remaining  respectable  during 
the  long  banquet  had  been  too  much  for  him,  and 
to  make  up  for  it  he  had  one-stepped  and  fox-trotted 
and  supped  at  the  cabaret  until  the  new  day  was 
well  on  its  way.  His  first  half-crystallized  thought 
was  of  the  beautiful  young  butterfly  with  whom  he 
had  danced  away  the  early  morning  hours,  and  then 
his  mind  suddenly  reverted  to  the  boy  orator  with 
the  Henry  Clay  face  who  had  so  glowingly  described 

117 


GOD'S    MATERIAL 

the  great  and  good  work  of  the  three  generations 
of  Enrights.  Perhaps  the  youthful  district  manager 
had  said  what  he  said  because  he  believed  it,  or  per- 
haps he  thought  that  it  would  help  him  with  the 
officers  of  the  company  and  bring  him  instant  prefer- 
ment, but,  whatever  his  intention,  there  could  be  no 
doubt  that  his  words  had  sunk  deep  into  the  guilty, 
joyous  soul  of  Johnny  Enright. 

For  some  time  Enright  lay  gazing  up  at  the  ceil- 
ing, listening  to  his  servant  moving  stealthily  about 
the  room,  and  then  he  cast  a  guilty  glance  at  the 
clock.  To  his  further  chagrin  he  found  that  it  was 
nearly  half-past  three.  Of  course,  it  was  too  late 
for  golf,  and,  as  he  had  no  dinner  engagement,  a 
long,  dull  afternoon  and  night  in  town  faced  him 
ominously.  He  was  thoroughly  discouraged  at  the 
outlook  and  he  was  more  discouraged  about  himself. 
The  words  of  the  district  manager  orator  returned 
to  taunt  him  and  upbraid  him  for  not  having  lived 
the  fine,  useful  life  that  his  father  and  grandfather 
had  lived  instead  of  that  of  the  pampered  son  of 
a  multimillionnaire — a  waster.  And  then,  as  he  still 
lay  gazing  up  at  the  ceiling,  but  now  quite  wide- 
awake, there  came  to  his  mind  a  talk  he  had  had 
with  his  father  just  before  the  old  man  had  died. 

118 


r  -r 

¥ 


Confused  and  still  blushing,  Johnny  heartily  thanked  the 
young  man. 


GOD'S    MATERIAL 

The  conversation  that  he  now  recalled  so  vividly 
seemed  to  fit  in  most  curiously  with  the  district 
manager's  speech  as  well  as  his  gloomy  views  con- 
cerning his  own  present  worthless  existence. 

They  had  been  sitting  together  in  his  father's  study 
and  the  gist  of  the  old  man's  words  was  this : 

"To-day,  my  son,  I  have  made  you  my  sole  heir, 
but,  for  certain  reasons,  there  is  one  bequest  I  did 
not  mention  in  my  will.  Your  grandfather  began 
life  as  a  plain  farmer.  He  was  born  and  brought  up 
on  a  little  place  that  was  known  as  The  Oaks,  near 
a  town  called  Millbrook,  in  Jersey.  As  a  boy  he 
worked  on  the  farm,  and  among  his  other  chores  he 
drove  the  cows  to  and  from  the  pasture  and  milked 
them.  Long  before  he  died  he  established  one  of  the 
biggest  milk  concerns  this  or  any  other  country  has 
ever  known.  When  he  was  successful  he  moved  to 
New  York,  but  in  a  way  he  held  on  to  the  farm 
at  Millbrook.  He  practically  gave  the  place  over 
to  an  old  farmer  and  his  wife,  but  he  always  retained 
the  privilege  of  spending  a  night  there  whenever  he 
saw  fit.  And,  in  spite  of  his  town  house  and  the  big 
place  he  built  afterward  at  Elberon,  he  frequently 
availed  himself  of  the  privilege.  He  contended  that 
one  night  at  the  old  farm  not  only  did  his  nerves  a 

119 


GOD'S    MATERIAL 

world  of  good  but  kept  his  relative  values  straight. 
If  the  money  came  in  a  little  too  fast  he  would  run 
down  and  have  a  look  at  the  old  cow  pasture  and  the 
barnyard  where  he  had  worked  as  a  barefooted  boy. 
And  when  he  felt  that  his  power  was  getting  the 
better  of  his  heart  and  his  common  sense  he  would 
spend  a  night  in  his  old  whitewashed  room  at  the 
farm,  sleep  on  a  corn-husk  mattress,  and  go  back  to 

town  chastened  and  ready  to  help  others  who  hadn't 
had  his  luck  or  his  talent  for  success.  When  your 
grandfather  died  he  left  the  old  place  to  the  farmer 
wha  had  looked  after  it  for  him,  but  it  was  stipulated 
in  the  deed  that  the  oldest  male  member  of  his  family 
should  always  have  the  right  to  occupy  his  bedroom." 

"And  did  you  ever  take  advantage  of  the  privi- 
lege?" Johnny  asked. 

"Not  exactly,"  said  Johnny's  father.  "The  place 
had  changed  hands  before  I  grew  old  enough  and 
wise  enough  to  feel  the  need  of  it.  But  several  times 
I  ran  down  there  and  looked  at  the  farm  where 
father  had  made  his  start,  and  I  must  say  it  always 
helped  me  over  some  hard  place.  Do  as  you  feel 
best  about  it,  my  boy,  but  the  privilege  of  spending 
a  night,  or  as  many  nights  as  you  choose,  in  the  old 
house  is  yours,  and  I'm  pretty  sure  that  some  of 

120 


GOD'S    MATERIAL 

these  days  it  might  do  you  good  to  take  advantage 
of  it." 

For  the  first  time  Johnny  was  old  enough  and 
wise  enough  to  understand  what  his  father's  words 
had  meant  and  his  mind  was  already  made  up.  Jump- 
ing out  of  bed,  he  ordered  his  chauffeur  to  report  at 
once  with  his  touring-car,  told  his  servant  to  pack 
his  bag  for  one  night,  and  then  proceeded  to  com- 
plete his  hasty  toilet.  Half  an  hour  later  he  was  in 
his  big  gray  touring-car,  alone,  and  driving  it  toward 
the  Fort  Lee  ferry  as  fast  as  the  speed  laws  would 
permit.  It  was  a  fine,  crisp  December  day,  and  the 
clear,  sharp  air  of  the  North  River  made  his  blood 
tingle  and  drove  away  every  vestige  of  the  unhappy 
effects  of  the  last  long,  hard  night.  The  farther  he 
went,  the  more  times  he  lost  his  way,  the  more  broadly 
did  Johnny  Enright  smile  at  his  adventure.  It  was 
already  dark;  he  was  soon  to  knock  at  the  door  of 
a  house  he  had  never  seen  and  demand  a  night's  lodg- 
ing of  people  of  whose  names  he  was  even  ignorant. 
His  mind,  now  alert  and  keen,  fairly  thrilled  at  the 
idea,  and  he  compared  himself  to  the  imaginative 
heroes  of  the  "Arabian  Nights."  The  latter  thought 
it  was,  no  doubt,  that  made  him  decide  to  emulate  the 
adventurers  of  the  fiction  of  the  Far  East  and  pre- 
121 


GOD'S    MATERIAL 

sent  himself  to  his  unknown  hosts  under  an  assumed 
name.  Then,  later,  when  they  had  rudely  refused 
him  admission,  he  would  dramatically  declare  his  true 
identity.  Who,  indeed,  should  say  now  that  Johnny 
Enright  was  without  imagination  or  that  there  was 
no  longer  the  spirit  of  adventure  throughout  the 
land! 

Thus  it  was,  when  David  left  Angela  by  the  fire 
and  went  out  to  his  front  gate,  the  young  man  in 
the  gray  car  introduced  himself  as  Mr.  Brown-Jones. 
The  stranger  also  admitted  that  he  had  lost  his  way 
and  was  thoroughly  chilled  after  his  long  ride.  Ten 
minutes  later  Mr.  Brown-Jones  was  before  the  Prin- 
dle  fireplace  and,  with  its  help  and  that  of  a  hot 
whiskey  toddy  that  Angela  had  brewed  for  him,  was 
gradually  being  thawed  into  a  state  of  genial  warmth. 
When,  still  later,  Mr.  Brown- Jones  suggested  that 
he  continue  on  his  way,  Angela  and  David  only 
laughed  at  the  idea,  and  both  of  them  insisted  on 
accompanying  him  to  the  spare  bedchamber  to  be 
sure  that  everything  that  could  be  done  was  done 
for  the  unexpected  guest. 

"We  always  have  it  ready,"  said  David  as  he 
lighted  the  candle  that  stood  before  the  sadly  tar- 

122 


GOD'S    MATERIAL 

nished  mirror.  "We've  been  expecting  a  guest  these 
five  years." 

"A  long  wait,"  said  Mr.  Brown-Jones.  "You  must 
have  been  looking  forward  to  his  coming  with  much 
pleasure." 

David  looked  at  Angela  and  smiled.  "Hardly 
that,  Mr.  Brown-Jones,"  he  said.  "But  it's  a  long 
story,  and  I'll  tell  you  at  dinner." 

David  not  only  told  the  story  at  dinner,  but  he 
told  of  all  of  his  and  Angela's  fears  as  to  the  com- 
ing of  this  Enright — the  ogre  who  might  legally  set- 
tle down  on  them,  bag  and  baggage,  for  the  rest  of 
his  days,  and  put  an  end  to  all  their  happiness.  And 
then,  while  Angela  talked,  David  wondered,  now  that 
he  had  lo.st  his  job,  if  there  was  to  be  any  more 
happiness.  Johnny  Enright,  alias  Brown-Jones, 
smiled  pleasantly  at  Angela  as  she  chatted  on,  but 
he  really  heard  nothing  of  what  she  said.  For  he, 
too,  was  wondering — wondering  that  any  two  peo- 
ple could  find  so  much  happiness  in  the  world  as  these 
two  babes  in  the  wood  on  whom,  by  some  curious 
whim  of  fate,  he  had  so  unexpectedly  stumbled.  After 
dinner,  indeed  until  far  into  the  night,  they  sat  about 
the  fire  and,  as  the  hours  grew,  so  grew  the  confi- 
dence in  each  other  of  these  three  new  friends.  There 

123 


GOD'S    MATERIAL 

was  something  so  genial  and  gay,  a  certain  human 
warmth  about  Mr.  Brown-Jones,  that,  to  Angela 
and  David,  it  seemed  to  permeate  the  whole  room 
and  completely  envelop  their  minds  and  hearts.  So 
intimate  became  the  talk  that  David  even  confided 
to  the  stranger  the  dream  of  the  new  wing  which 
was  to  contain  the  oak-panelled  library  and  the  pink- 
and-gold  bedroom  for  Angela.  And  then,  when  it 
was  very  late,  and  without  knowing  exactly  why  or 
how,  David  told  of  the  great  tragedy  that  had  be- 
fallen them  that  very  day.  But,  although  the  stranger 
spoke  words  of  sympathy,  David,  and  Angela,  too, 
were  a  little  hurt  to  note  how  lightly  he  regarded 
the  loss  of  a  job.  Indeed,  in  the  very  midst  of 
David's  tale  of  woe,  Mr.  Brown-Jones  clasped  his 
hands  over  his  stomach,  gazed  fixedly  at  the  rafters, 
and  smiled  as  if  a  new  and  beautiful  idea  had  just 
entered  his  good-looking  head. 

Angela  and  David  were  up  and  about  early  the 
next  morning,  but  not  so  early  as  the  stranger,  whom 
they  found  wandering  happily  about  the  barnyard. 

"Never  have  I  felt  so  refreshed,"  said  Mr.  Brown- 
Jones.  "That  room  of  yours  is  a  tonic — almost  an 
inspiration.  It  has  given  even  me  a  whole  lot  of 
ideas." 

124 


Mr.  Brown -Jones  smiled  as  if  a  new  and  beautiful  idea  had 
just  entered  his  good-looking  head. 


GOD'S    MATERIAL 

It  was  at  breakfast  that  Enright  disclosed  his  iden- 
tity and  told  them  of  the  ideas. 

"Down  at  Norfolk,"  he  said,  "I've  got  a  house- 
boat waiting  for  me.  It's  a  bit  of  a  tub,  but  rather 
comfortable.  We'll  drift  down  the  canals  to  Florida, 
and  play  golf  at  Saint  Augustine  and  roulette  at 
Palm  Beach.  And  then,  if  the  notion  seizes  us,  we 
can  go  to  New  Orleans  for  the  carnival  and  a  dinner 
at  Jules's,  or  we  can  run  over  to  Havana  for  some 
good  green  cigars.  What  do  you  say? — I'll  even 
promise  to  have  you  back  in  time  for  Angela  to  do 
her  spring  planting.  And,  in  addition  to  the  garden- 
ing it  will  then  be  high  time  for  David  and  I  to  begin 
our  real  life's  work  with  the  Universal  Milk  Com- 
pany. The  company  mayn't  know  that,  but  we  know 
it." 

At  the  moment  neither  Angela  nor  David  gave  an 
answer;  in  fact,  they  never  did  give  an  answer  in 
words.  David  tried  to  say  something,  but  it  was  a 
rather  sorry  effort,  and  Angela,  suddenly  jumping 
up  from  the  table,  ran  to  her  bedroom,  from  which 
she  later  returned  with  a  nose  much  bepowdered. 

True  to  his  word,  Enright  brought  them  back  just 
as  the  first  crocus  in  Angela's  garden  poked  its  head 
into  the  warm  spring  sunshine.  A  few  months  of 

125 


GOD'S    MATERIAL 

luxurious  ease  had  in  no  way  dimmed  their  love  for 
the  little  farmhouse.  As  they  turned  the  bend  in 
the  road  and  caught  the  first  glimpse  of  it  there  was 
still  the  same  thrill.  The  same  old  home — and  yet, 
as  they  drew  nearer,  they  found  it  was  not  quite  the 
same.  Evidently  the  fairies  had  been  at  work  over- 
night, for  there  it  was — the  new  wing.  On  close  in- 
spection they  found  the  oak-panelled  library,  just 
as  it  had  appeared  in  David's  dreams,  and  a 
pink-and-gold  bedroom — almost  as  exquisite  in  its 
loveliness  as  the  loveliness  of  Angela  herself.  Every- 
where, as  they  ran  through  the  house  like  two  laugh- 
ing children,  they  found  new  treasures — treasures 
devised  and  created  by  the  clever  architect  and  the 
cleverer  lady  decorator,  both  of  whom  served  under 
the  golden  wand  of  Johnny  Enright.  Everywhere 
they  found  something  new  to  admire  and  to  wonder 
at — everywhere  except  in  one  room,  which  they  found 
just  as  they  had  left  it.  The  golden  wand  of  Johnny 
Enright  had  spared  that  one  room.  There  it  was, 
cold,  gray,  uncompromising — a  hard-bound  legacy, 
a  reminder  of  other,  simpler  days. 


126 


THE  JOY   OF  DYING 


ROBES  dropped  the  evening  paper  on 
her  lap,  clasped  her  hands  behind  her  head  and  stared 
steadily  at  the  freshly  calsimined  ceiling. 

"That  sounds  like  a  wonderful  white  sale  at  Dobey's 
to-morrow,"  she  said.  "One  ought  to  pick  up  some 
real  bargains  —  that  is  if  the  advertisement  doesn't 
lie.  They  claim  to  have  some  combinations  for 
three-twenty-five  marked  down  — 

Rather  vague  as  to  just  what  his  wife  had  been 
saying,  Hobbs  appeared  from  behind  Dillon's  rival 
evening  paper  and  in  a  dazed  way  glanced  across  the 
centre-table. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  he  stammered,  "combinations. 
Cheap,  eh?" 

Without  removing  her  eyes  from  the  ceiling  Mer- 
cita's  pretty  lips  puckered  and  then  wavered  into 
a  mirthless,  almost  cynical  smile. 

"I  can  remember,  Bexley,  dear,"  she  cooed,  "when 
you  were  rather  keen  about  lingerie  for  your  little 
wifey.  But  that  was  six  long  months  ago  —  six  long 
months." 

127 


THE    JOY    OF    DYING 

"Six  very  short  months  I  should  say,"  Hobbs 
temporized  with  a  rather  feeble  effort  at  gallantry. 
"If  I  am  not  very  enthusiastic  about  white  sales  or 
any  other  kind  of  sales  just  now,  my  dear,  you  know 
the  reason.  Our  income  is  unfortunately  a  fixed 
quantity  and  we  have  been  living  a  trifle  beyond  it. 
The  calculations  I  made  before  our  wedding,  now 
that  they  have  been  put  to  a  practical  test,  have  not 
quite  worked  out,  that's  all.  A  little  economy  for 
a  few  months  and  by  the  early  summer  we  shall  be 
all  square  again.  Why,  only  this  evening,  on  my 
way  home,  I  saw  some  plaid  ties  in  Kendrick's  window 
marked  down  to  twenty-five  cents.  In  my  bachelor 
days  I  should  have  bought  several  without  a  moment's 
thought,  but  the  fact  that  I  couldn't  buy  them  now 
didn't  worry  me  at  all.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  said  to 
myself,  'Bexley,'  said  I,  'your  old  ties  are  good 
enough.  And  what  if  you  can't  take  a  few  plaid  ties 
home  with  you?  Haven't  you  got  the  prettiest  and 
the  brightest  wife  in  the  town  of  Dillon  waiting 
there  for  you?'  Now  that's  the  way  you  ought  to 
feel  about  advertisements  of  white  sales  and — and 
things." 

From  her  youth  Mercita  had  been  an  omnivorous 
reader  of  all  kinds  of  literature  and  had  been  born 

128 


THE    JOY    OF    DYING 

with  an  unusually  retentive  memory  as  well  as  a  voice 
that  was  not  only  sweet  and  melodious  but  particu- 
larly well  adapted  to  declamation.  Under  the  cir- 
cumstances it  was  quite  natural  that  during  an  argu- 
ment or  even  ordinary  conversation  she  should  quote 
freely  from  the  classic  authors.  On  this  particular 
occasion  her  somewhat  emotional  mind  turned  to 
Stevenson's  "Markheim,"  and,  without  vouchsafing 
a  glance  toward  her  husband,  she  delivered  the  fol- 
lowing quotation  directly  at  the  ceiling.  "If  I  be 
condemned  to  evil  acts  there  is  still  one  door  of  free- 
dom open — I  can  cease  from  action.  If  my  life  be 
an  ill  thing  I  can  lay  it  down.  Though  I  be,  as  you 
say  truly,  at  the  beck  of  every  small  temptation,  I 
can  yet,  by  one  decisive  gesture,  place  myself  beyond 
the  reach  of  all." 

Hobbs  put  his  hand  before  his  mouth  and  giggled 
audibly.  Then  he  went  over  to  the  hearth,  and,  with 
his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  stood  before  the 
coal-grate  fire  and  through  his  gold-rimmed  eye- 
glasses beamed  down  pleasantly  on  his  wife. 

"That's  a  cheerful  little  thing,"  he  said  with  a 
somewhat  conscious  chuckle.  "Cute  idea  of  yours, 
my  dear,  to  take  your  life  because  you  can't  afford 
a  suit  of  new  underwear." 

129 


THE    JOY    OF    DYING 

Mrs.  Hobbs  turned  her  eyes  from  the  ceiling  to  the 
weak,  smiling  face  and  the  short,  stooping  figure  of 
her  husband  and  then  back  again  to  the  ceiling. 

"What  matters  the  excuse,"  she  said  gravely, 
"so  long  as  one's  conscience  is  satisfied  with  the 
cause?" 

The  mother  of  Mrs.  Hobbs  had  been  conspicuous 
in  clubs,  a  leader  in  the  expression  of  all  of  women's 
most  advanced  and  broadest  views,  and  Mercita  had 
inherited  the  greater  part  of  her  parent's  somewhat 
advanced  theories. 

"I  don't  see  what  the  cause  has  got  to  do  with  it," 
Hobbs  said  frankly  perplexed  at  his  wife's  rather 
enigmatical  speech.  "Suicide  is  suicide  and  suicide 
is  always  wrong.  It's  criminal.  If  you  try  it  and 
don't  get  away  with  it  they  can  lock  you  up." 

"They  can  in  New  York,"  Mercita  corrected  her 
husband  with  just  the  suggestion  of  a  sneer.  "They 
can't  in  this  or  any  of  the  more  enlightened  states  of 
the  Middle  West." 

Mercita  had  a  way  of  correcting  her  husband  with 
statements  the  truthfulness  of  which  his  training 
which  had  been  more  commercial  than  general  did 
not  qualify  him  to  question.  Therefore,  partly  as 
a  compliment  to  her  superior  education  and  partly 

130 


THE    JOY    OF    DYING 

to  hide  his  own  ignorance,  he  usually  accepted  what 
she  said  as  final.  But  the  idea  of  treating  suicide 
so  lightly  he  found  most  difficult  to  pass  by  without 
another  word  of  protest.  Self-destruction  had  al- 
ways appealed  to  him  as  the  act  of  a  helpless  coward 
or  a  lunatic  and  as  a  subject  fit  for  discussion  only 
among  doctors  and  criminologists. 

"All  right,"  he  said  with  a  considerable  show  of 
feeling,  "you  may  be  right  about  the  state  laws  on 
the  subject  but  you  must  admit  that  the  body  of  a 
suicide  can't  be  buried  in  any  first-class  Christian 
cemetery.  And  in  the  Catholic  Church — 

"A  barbaric  tradition  of  religions,"  his  wife  in- 
terrupted, "that  is  crumbling  as  fast  as  the  religions 
are  themselves.  The  old-time  fear  that  the  suicide 
once  had  for  the  punishment  hereafter  is  now  a  buga- 
boo only  fit  to  scare  old  men  and  children  with.  To 
prove  that  I'm  right  all  you've  got  to  do  is  to  look 
up  the  statistics  and  see  how  steadily  the  cases  of 
suicide  have  kept  step  with  the  advancement  of  educa- 
tion, and  this  advancement  means  the  promotion  of 
materialism  and  the  happily  growing  disbelief  in  all 
things  supernatural,  especially  this  book  of  fairy 
tales  called  the  Bible." 

As  Mercita  fairly  hurled  her  words  at  him  Hobbs 
131 


THE    JOY    OF    DYING 

remained  silent,  impotently  locking  and  unlocking 
his  fingers  behind  his  back.  It  was  as  if  she  were 
pounding  him  in  the  face  with  her  fists.  In  the  days 
of  his  courtship  he  had  always  regretted  that  Mer- 
cita  so  seldom  went  to  church  with  him ;  after  their 
marriage  he  was  sorry  to  find  that  she  did  not  say 
her  prayers,  but  his  religion  had  always  been  some- 
thing too  sacred  to  him,  too  near  his  heart,  for  him 
to  discuss  with  any  one,  and,  heretofore,  she,  on  her 
part,  had  respected  his  feelings  by  avoiding  the  sub- 
ject. But  now  she  was  wantonly  defaming  his  belief 
and  actually  upholding  the  crime  of  suicide  as  a 
decent  and  respectable  act.  The  walls  of  the  house 
that  he  had  built  after  so  much  effort  and  with  so 
much  care  were  crumbling  about  his  head,  and  his 
dull,  slow-plodding  brain  saw  no  way  to  prevent  the 
total  destruction  of  his  home.  Even  had  he  had  the 
temerity  to  refute  his  wife's  words  he  would  not  have 
done  so.  Imperious,  cruel  as  she  might  be,  his  whole 
heart  was  filled  with  his  great  love  for  her,  and  his 
innate  chivalry  for  women  alone  held  his  tongue  in 
leash.  Therefore,  with  no  further  words  but  a  clumsy 
effort  at  a  bow  which  was  supposed  to  interpret  his 
injured  dignity,  he  went  out  into  the  hallway,  put 
on  his  hat  and  overcoat,  and  left  the  house. 

132 


THE    JOY    OF    DYING 

It  was  a  cool,  pleasant  evening  in  late  February. 
Light,  gray  clouds  floated  leisurely  across  a  whitish- 
silver  moon  and  an  occasional  star  peeped  down  on 
the  deserted  avenue  lined  with  its  rows  of  leafless 
poplars  and  semi-detached  villas.  With  his  usual 
regard  for  health,  Hobbs  buttoned  his  overcoat 
tightly  over  his  chest  and,  thrusting  his  gloved  hands 
deep  in  his  pockets,  started  to  walk  slowly  in  the 
direction  toward  which  his  feet  unconsciously  led 
him.  It  was  quite  the  most  unhappy  promenade  on 
which  he  had  ever  set  forth,  and  the  saddest  part 
of  it  was  that  Hobbs  himself  thoroughly  realized 
that  however  far  the  walk  and  his  thoughts  might 
take  him  conditions  so  far  as  he  was  concerned  would 
remain  absolutely  unchanged.  As  chief  clerk  in  one 
of  the  leading  hardware  stores  of  the  town  he  was 
sure  of  a  certain  income,  but  the  firm  was  old-fash- 
ioned and  conservative,  satisfied  with  its  present 
profits,  and  so  long  as  there  was  no  perceptible  in- 
crease in  the  profits  there  would  surely  be  none  in 
Hobbs's  salary.  He  had  no  other  sources  of  income 
and  his  wife  had  spent  the  last  cent  of  her  patrimony 
on  her  trousseau.  Indeed  it  was  her  penniless  con- 
dition to  which  the  town  of  Dillon  attributed  the 
willingness  of  so  pretty  and  intelligent  a  girl  as 

133 


THE    JOY    OF    DYING 

Mercita   to   marry   so   dull    although   eminently   re- 
spectable a  young  man  as  Bexley  Hobbs. 

Ever  since  their  marriage  Hobbs's  financial  plans 
had  gone  wrong.  His  figures  as  to  the  rent,  electric- 
light,  telephone,  interest  on  his  life  insurance  policy, 
had  all  proved  correct,  but  almost  every  other  item 
of  expense  had  far  exceeded  his  most  liberal  calcula- 
tions. The  reserve  fund  which  he  had  stored  up 
against  possible  illness  or  some  unforeseen  calamity 
had  long  since  been  swept  away  and  he  was  already 
in  debt  to  several  of  the  tradespeople.  Of  late  he 
had  practised  the  most  rigid  economy,  but  Mercita 
who  neither  understood  nor  cared  for  the  details  of 
housekeeping  had  done  very  little  to  lighten  his 
burden.  That  his  wife  should  care  for  pretty  clothes 
and  the  things  dear  to  all  women's  hearts  Hobbs 
admitted  to  be  natural  and  fair,  but  that  she  should 
express  her  rage  over  the  lack  of  money  to  buy  a 
new  hat  or  a  suit  of  underwear  by  attacking  the 
Christian  religion  or  threatening  to  commit  suicide 
appealed  to  him  as  neither  the  one  nor  the  other. 
The  idea  that  Mercita  should  for  one  moment  ever 
think  of  taking  her  life  was  of  course  too  absurd 
for  Hobbs  to  consider,  and  he  decided  to  dismiss  it 
from  his  mind  for  all  time. 

134- 


THE    JOY    OF    DYING 

He  hastened  his  lagging  steps,  and,  in  the  effort 
to  enliven  his  thoughts,  tried  to  whistle  a  tune  and 
glanced  up  at  the  fleecy  clouds  chasing  each  other 
across  the  moon.  But  try  as  he  might  he  found  it 
difficult  to  divert  his  thoughts  from  Mercita  and  her 
troubles.  When  she  had  complained  that  her  trous- 
seau was  worn  out  Hobbs  freely  admitted  to  himself 
that  she  was  no  doubt  right.  Also,  she  was  perfectly 
correct  when  she  contended  that  since  her  marriage 
the  young  men  of  Dillon  no  longer  asked  her  to 
dances  and  to  the  theatre.  Now  they  left  that  pleas- 
ure to  her  husband  and  her  husband  did  not  avail 
himself  of  that  pleasure.  That  Hobbs  had  not  the 
money  available  for  such  luxuries  did  not  alter  the 
fact  that  it  was  Mercita's  marriage  to  him  that 
had  deprived  her  of  them. 

Once  more  Hobbs  quickened  his  pace  and  tried  to 
interest  himself  in  the  beauty  of  the  heavens,  but  he 
found  himself  reluctantly  admitting  that  for  the  last 
two  months  Mercita  and  he  had  spent  every  evening 
at  their  own  fireside,  and  that  from  this  or  for  some 
other  cause  his  wife  had  been  constantly  growing 
irritable  and  dissatisfied.  Not  only  had  this  spirit 
of  discontent  grown  upon  her  but  of  late  she  had 

135 


THE    JOY    OF    DYING 

often  suffered  from  fits  of  real  depression,  and  now 
that  he  gave  the  matter  his  serious  consideration  he 
remembered  that  she  had  lost  much  of  her  former 
brilliant  coloring  and  had  frequently  looked  decidedly 
pale  and  wan.  Unconsciously  Hobbs  came  to  a 
sudden  halt,  and,  in  a  confused  way  having  stared 
about  him,  found  that  he  had  walked  a  good  half-mile 
from  his  home.  Sharply  he  turned  and  started  to 
retrace  his  steps. 

Again  he  tried  to  whistle  and  to  fill  his  mind  with 
pleasant,  hopeful  thoughts  of  the  spring  when  he 
would  have  paid  his  debts  and  would  be  in  a  position 
to  give  Mercita  some  new  clothes  and  a  few  jolly 
outings.  But  such  happy  thoughts  were  wholly 
forced  and  his  disturbed  mind  cast  them  out  and  once 
more  raced  back  to  Mercita.  Of  course  even  in  her 
unenviable  and  discontented  condition  she  would  not 
consider  suicide,  but  Hobbs  could  not  help  regret- 
ting that  any  woman  so  emotional  as  his  wife  should 
hold  the  crime  of  suicide  so  lightly,  indeed  should 
regard  the  act  as  no  crime  at  all.  From  a  quick 
walk  he  broke  into  a  trot. 

Exactly  why  he  should  make  such  haste  to  reach 
his  home  Hobbs  in  his  breathless,  excited  state  would 
not  have  admitted  to  himself,  even  could  he  have  done 

136 


THE    JOY    OF    DYING 

so.  But  the  seed  of  fear,  the  dread  of  oncoming 
disaster  and  disgrace  had  been  planted  in  his  heart, 
and  now  that  his  cottage  was  in  sight  he  fairly  flew 
along  the  hard  clay  path.  A  few  minutes  later  Mer- 
cita  heard  the  front  door  thrown  back  and  saw  her 
husband  suddenly  appear  before  her  at  the  sitting- 
room  door.  He  was  quite  breathless  and  when  he 
saw  her  sitting  calmly  by  the  centre-table  she  noticed 
the  curious  look  of  joy  that  flamed  up  in  his  wide- 
open  eyes.  He  gave  a  quick  sigh,  and,  for  a  moment, 
leaned  heavily  against  the  door-frame. 

"Bexley,"  Mercita  demanded,  "what  is  the  matter 
with  you?  Have  you  seen  a  ghost  or  have  you  been 
training  for  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  sports?  My  dear, 
you're  a  sight." 

By  way  of  answer  to  his  wife's  pleasantries  Hobbs 
smiled  weakly  at  her  and  then  pulling  himself  to- 
gether went  back  to  the  hallway  and  hung  up  his  hat 
and  coat. 

With  no  conspicuous  change,  life  at  the  Hobbs's 
cottage  drifted  on  as  before.  Hobbs  spent  his  days 
at  the  store  and  Mercita  read  and  occasionally  at- 
tended a  meeting  of  some  society  devoted  to  the 
advancement  of  women.  At  night,  after  supper,  they 
read  the  local  evening  papers  and  played  cards, 

137 


THE    JOY    OF    DYING 

sometimes  by  themselves  and  sometimes  with  neigh- 
bors who  had  dropped  in  for  the  evening.  Mercita 
grew  a  trifle  more  pale,  at  least  Hobbs  thought  she 
did.  That  she  became  more  dissatisfied  and  despond- 
ent and  that  Hobbs  was  more  worried  and  solicitous 
about  his  wife  there  could  .be  no  question  whatever. 
Two  weeks  after  the  night  that  Mercita  had  first 
expressed  her  views  on  suicide  she  went  to  see  a  friend 
who  was  lying  ill  at  a  hospital.  That  evening  she 
told  Hobbs  of  her  visit. 

"It  has  a  great  charm  for  me,"  she  said,  "the 
life  of  a  nurse.  They  see  so  much  of  human  nature 
and  I've  always  loved  the  study  of  drugs.  Even  the 
rows  of  little  bottles  in  the  glass  case  fascinate  me. 
I  saw  a  bottle  of  laudanum  there  to-day  which  I  was 
greatly  tempted  to  steal.  It's  curious  how  in  the 
old  days  people  were  allowed  to  carry  the  most 
deadly  poison  about  with  them  in  a  signet  ring,  but 
now  we  have  to  steal  it  at  hospitals  or  get  harmless 
doses  at  a  drug-store  and  then  only  with  a  doctor's 
prescription. 

"And  yet  they  call  it  a  free  country.  Why  there 
are  some  states  in  the  enlightened  East  where  no 
one  is  allowed  to  own  a  revolver  without  a  permit 
from  the  mayor  or  the  governor  or  something." 

138 


THE    JOY    OF    DYING 

Hobbs  lowered  his  newspaper  and  forced  a  smile 
to  his  lips. 

"That's  only  a  precaution  the  law  takes,"  he  ex- 
plained, "for  the  protection  of  the  mentally  weak 
or  people  who  are  subject  to  violent  passions.  With 
a  deadly  poison  or  a  revolver  at  hand  there  are 
no  doubt  many  men  and  women  who  in  a  moment 
of " 

"Did  you  read  about  that  man  who  killed  himself 
in  Buffalo  yesterday?"  Mercita  interrupted,  and, 
without  waiting  for  her  husband's  reply,  ran  on. 
"Well,  he  went  to  a  small  hotel,  stuffed  up  the  cracks 
of  the  windows  and  doors  with  newspapers  and  turned 
on  the  gas.  All  he  left  was  one  line  scribbled  on  the 
back  of  an  old  envelope:  'Not  good  enough.'  Now 
there  was  a  man  after  my  own  heart.  Nobody  asked 
him  permission  to  bring  him  into  the  world  and  he 
didn't  ask  any  one's  permission  to  leave  it." 

Hobbs  did  not  continue  the  conversation  but  that 
night  he  preceded  his  wife  to  their  bedroom  and  hav- 
ing taken  a  revolver  from  a  bureau  drawer,  where  he 
had  always  kept  it  in  case  of  burglars,  locked  it  in  his 
desk.  Then  he  went  carefully  about  the  room  looking 
for  any  article  with  which  Mercita  could  possibly 
make  an  end  of  herself,  but  finding  nothing  went  to 

139 


THE    JOY    OF    DYING 

bed  and  tried  to  sleep.  The  next  day  when  he  re- 
turned from  work  he  found  Mercita  ill  in  bed,  and 
he  insisted  on  sending  for  the  family  physician,  Dr. 
Brandt.  When  the  doctor  left  Mercita's  bedroom 
he  found  Hobbs  waiting  for  him  in  the  parlor.  Dr. 
Brandt  was  a  stout,  florid,  cheerful  man,  and,  in  his 
physical  aspect  as  well  as  in  his  mental  attitude 
toward  life,  in  striking  contrast  to  little,  stoop- 
shouldered,  nervous  Hobbs. 

"Nothing  serious,  I  hope?"  said  Hobbs,  drawing 
the  doctor  into  the  dimly-lighted  parlor. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Brandt  assuringly,  "not  at  all 
serious.  Nerves  upset  and  a  little  run  down,  I  should 
think.  Needs  a  tonic  and  more  fresh  air  and  exer- 
cise. I'm  going  to  give  her  some  strychnine,  and  you 
see  that  she  takes  the  pills  regularly.  I'll  leave  the 
prescription  at  Blair's  on  my  way  down  town." 

Hobbs  felt  his  throat  getting  dry  and  he  spoke 
with  some  little  difficulty. 

"But  strychnine  is  a  pretty  strong  poison,  isn't 
it,  doctor?"  he  asked. 

"It  is  if  you  take  too  much  of  it  at  one  time," 
Brandt  laughed.  "Don't  worry,  Bexley;  Mercita's 
a  careful  patient  and  I  don't  imagine  you're  afraid 
of  her  taking  an  overdose  on  purpose." 

140 


THE    JOY    OF    DYING 

Hobbs  forced  a  smile  to  his  parched  lips.  "Nat- 
urally not,"  he  said,  "naturally  not.  I  suppose  I'm 
a  little  timid  about  poisons — always  have  been.  I 
had  a  friend  once  whose  wife  used  to  threaten  to 
kiU  herself." 

Brandt  tossed  up  his  hands.  "Then  God  help  your 
friend,"  he  said.  "But  at  that  I'll  bet  his  wife  took 
it  out  in  threats.  It's  a  curious  thing,  Bexley.  His- 
tory shows  that  about  four  men  commit  suicide  to 
one  woman,  but  if  the  statistics  could  be  taken  I'll 
bet  they  would  prove  that  four  thousand  women 
threaten  to  one  that  finally  does  the  act." 

Hobbs  wet  his  lips  with  his  tongue  and  nodded 
gravely.  "Very  curious,"  he  said. 

"Curious,"  Brandt  repeated,  "curious !  Why  its 
the  most  cruel  and  insidious  weapon  that  God  ever 
put  in  the  power  of  human  beings.  In  my  own  pro- 
fessional experience  I've  known  several  men  whose 
wives  had  the  habit.  Not  one  of  the  women  had  the 
first  idea  of  killing  herself  even  if  she'd  had  the  nerve. 
But  the  husbands  went  about  with  this  sword  hang- 
ing over  their  heads  night  and  day  and  such  constant 
terror  in  their  hearts  that  it  became  an  obsession. 
It  cramped  their  lives,  gradually  used  up  their  nerv- 
ous systems  and  in  two  cases  the  health  of  the  men 

141 


THE    JOY    OF    DYING 

cracked  entirely.  Of  course,  the  psychology  of  it 
was  that  the  husbands  thought  that  this  sword  that 
their  wives  had  swung  over  their  heads  hung  by 
a  thread,  while  as  a  matter  of  fact  it  was  held  by  the 
cords  of  fear  and  the  innate  love  of  life  which,  as 
cords  go,  are  about  as  big  and  strong  as  a  couple 
of  wire  hawsers." 

"It  does  seem  pretty  hard  on  the  men,"  Hobbs 
protested  mildly,  "especially  when  they  love  their 
wives.  It's  the  one  argument  that  just  through  his 
fear  of  the  consequences  a  husband  can't  answer, 
and,  then,  of  course,  one  can  never  be  sure  that  his 
wife  is  not  the  one  of  the  four  thousand." 

"One  out  of  four  thousand  is  a  long  chance," 
Brandt  laughed.  "Anyhow  I  wouldn't  worry  about 
Mercita.  Mercita's  not  over  vain  and  this  talk  about 
suicide  is  only  woman's  egotism  carried  to  the  highest 
possible  degree.  Good-night  to  you." 

For  some  time  after  Brandt  had  left  Hobbs  re- 
mained alone  in  the  parlor,  and,  so  far  as  he  was 
able,  repeated  over  and  over  again  all  that  the  physi- 
cian had  said.  But  although  he  found  much  comfort 
and  probable  truth  in  Brandt's  words  he  could  not 
help  regretting  that  the  physician  should  have  recom- 
mended strychnine  as  a  tonic  for  his  wife — especially 

142 


THE    JOY    OF    DYING 

in  her  present  nervous  and  discontented  condition. 
In  time  he  went  to  Mercita's  room,  and  sitting  by 
the  bedside  tried  to  amuse  her  by  telling  of  what 
he  had  done  during  the  day  and  by  reading  bits  of 
news  from  the  evening  papers.  Just  when  he  had 
apparently  succeeded  in  slightly  arousing  her  inter- 
est the  boy  from  the  drug-store  arrived  with  the 
strychnine.  The  little  white  tablets  were  in  a  small 
bottle,  and,  with  a  show  of  complete  indifference, 
Hobbs  handed  them  to  his  wife. 

"Do  you  know  what  these  are?"  she  asked. 

"Brandt  told  me  he  was  going  to  give  you  strych- 
nine, I  think,"  Bexley  said  carelessly. 

"That's  right,"  Mercita  said  with  a  wan  smile, 
"and,  Bexley  dear,  don't  get  them  mixed  up  with 
your  digestive  tablets.  They're  pretty  strong,  you 
know."  For  a  few  moments  she  held  the  vial  up 
before  her  and  stared  at  the  contents.  "Half  of 
those,  Bexley,  would  be  quite  enough  to  do  for  you 
— quite.  Fetch  me  a  glass  of  water,  won't  you 
please?" 

Hobbs  hurried  downstairs  for  the  water,  and  when 
he  returned  he  found  Mercita  sitting  up  in  bed.  In 
one  hand  she  held  the  empty  vial  and  in  the  palm 
of  the  other  lay  the  little  white  tablets.  As  Bexley 

143 


THE    JOY   OF   DYING 

approached  the  bed  Mercita  glanced  up  at  her  hus- 
band and  then  carefully  poured  all  of  the  tablets 
except  one  back  into  the  bottle. 

On  the  following  morning  when  Hobbs  started  to 
work,  although  the  condition  of  his  wife  seemed  much 
improved,  he  left  her  with  a  feeling  of  real  reluctance. 
Throughout  the  long  day  the  picture  of  Mercita 
sitting  up  in  bed,  the  white  pellets  cupped  in  her 
hand,  was  always  before  him.  He  did  his  best  to 
make  light  of  his  fears  and  tried  to  console  himself 
with  Brandt's  words  of  the  preceding  evening.  But 
the  terror  that  Mercita  might  even  then  be  lying 
dead  never  left  him.  Half  a  dozen  times,  on  the  pre- 
text of  asking  how  she  was,  he  called  her  on  the  tele- 
phone. However,  the  last  time  that  he  called  she 
asked  him  not  to  bother  her  again  as  she  wanted 
to  sleep,  and,  thus,  his  last  source  of  communication 
was  cut  off.  Instead  of  going  to  lunch  he  went  to 
the  public  library  and  read  all  he  could  find  in 
the  encyclopedias  concerning  poisons,  and  especially 
strychnine  and  its  antidotes.  That  evening  on  his 
way  home  he  stopped  in  at  a  drug-store  where  he 
was  unknown  and  bought  some  chloroform  and 
chloral  hydrate.  But  all  that  he  had  read  that  day 
and  all  of  the  books  on  toxicology,  which  he  consulted 

144 


THE    JOY    OF    DYING 

afterward,   held  out  but  little  hope   if  the  patient 
had  taken  any  considerable  dose  of  the  fatal  drug. 

Although  Mercita  continued  to  improve,  that  is 
so  far  as  her  physical  condition  was  concerned,  Hobbs 
grew  more  restless  and  his  mind  harbored  but  the 
one  subject.  In  his  moments  of  leisure  at  the  shop 
it  was  his  only  topic  of  conversation  with  the  other 
men,  and  whenever  he  could  afford  the  time  he 
hurried  to  the  library  and  read  what  the  most  noted 
authorities  had  written  on  suicide  and  its  causes. 
At  home  he  was  in  constant  dread  of  hurting  his 
wife's  feelings,  and  no  longer  with  his  former  feeble 
arguments  even  pretended  to  combat  her  wishes.  For 
fear  of  offending  her  he  continued  to  go  further  in 
debt,  and  he  became  greatly  alarmed  that  his  em- 
ployers would  learn  that  he  was  living  beyond  his 
income.  But  Mercita  was  not  satisfied  and  at  times 
broke  out  in  violent  tirades  against  her  unhappy  lot. 
After  such  scenes  she  would  usually  fly  to  her  room 
and  Hobbs  would  be  left  alone  in  the  little  parlor, 
or,  when  he  could  stand  the  oppression  of  the  room 
no  longer,  he  would  leave  the  house  and  walk  until 
he  was  physically  exhausted.  At  such  times  his 
mind  constantly  visualized  the  scene  that  would  greet 
him  on  his  return.  As  he  entered  the  door  the  maid, 

145 


THE    JOY    OF    DYING 

crying  hysterically,  would  greet  him  with  the  tragic 
news  and  he  would  bound  up  the  stairways  to  his 
wife's  bedroom.  There  he  would  find  Mercita,  the 
woman  he  loved,  the  only  woman  he  ever  could  love, 
was  passing  forever  out  of  his  life  and  he  alone  was 
to  blame.  For  had  not  this  lovely  girl  given  herself 
to  him  and  had  he  not  failed  utterly  to  make  her  life 
worth  the  living?  He  could  see  her  slight,  beautiful 
body  on  the  bed;  the  look  of  terror  in  the  big  blue 
eyes,  the  head  jerked  back,  the  limbs  extended,  the 
arched  back.  And  there  by  her  bedside  he,  Bexley 
Hobbs,  who  loved  her  better  than  all  the  world  beside, 
would  stand  helpless  and  hopeless  and  impotently 
watch  the  end.  Helpless  and  hopeless  he  would  stand 
there  and  watch  the  scene  that  would  sear  his  brain 
with  a  scar  that  would  last  as  long  as  he  did. 

Such  a  scene,  however,  took  place  only  in  the  half- 
crazed  brain  of  Bexley  Hobbs.  Mercita  continued 
to  take  her  one  tablet  a  day  and  to  thrive  on  it.  The 
cure  had  been  progressing  for  about  a  fortnight  when 
one  evening  she  returned  home  much  later  than  was 
her  custom.  To  her  husband  who  had  been  anxiously 
awaiting  her  coming  she  at  once  imparted  her  all  im- 
portant news.  A  week  hence  there  was  to  be  a  gala 
meeting  of  the  feminists  of  the  state  at  the  Opera 

146 


THE    JOY    OF    DYING 

House  and  she  had  been  chosen  to  make  the  speech 
of  welcome  to  the  distinguished  visitors. 

"Bexley,"  she  said,  her  eyes  shining  with  excite- 
ment and  suspense,  "it  is  going  to  be  the  greatest 
and  the  happiest  hour  of  my  life.  But  the  occasion 
demands  that  I  be  properly  dressed.  I'm  sorry  be- 
cause I  know  that  you  are  hard  up,  but  I  must 
either  get  a  new  evening  dress,  and  a  really  good 
one,  or  refuse  this  honor  which  the  committee  has 
offered  me." 

It  was  an  honor,  a  great  honor  to  his  wife,  and 
Hobbs  appreciated  it,  but  he  had  no  money,  he  was 
in  debt,  and  his  only  assets  were  his  life  insurance 
policy  and  the  few  dollars  he  had  in  his  pocket.  His 
heart  was.  of  lead  and  he  turned  his  unhappy  eyes 
helplessly  toward  those  of  his  wife. 

"I  don't  know  how  it  can  be  done,  Mercita,"  he 
said,  "but  give  me  until  to-morrow  and  I'll  promise 
you  to  do  my  best." 

During  supper  and  afterward  as  they  sat  together 
in  the  parlor  Mercita  showed  only  too  plainly  that 
her  feelings  had  been  wounded  and  that  her  disap- 
pointment over  her  husband's  half-hearted  promise 
was  very  keen.  At  ten  o'clock  Hobbs  kissed  his 
wife  good  night  and  said  that  he  would  take  a  short 

147 


THE    JOY    OF    DYING 

walk  before  going  to  bed.  Left  alone,  Mercita's 
anger  over  what  she  considered  the  inadequacy  of 
her  husband  to  properly  provide  for  her  increased 
and  she  set  about  to  devise  some  scheme  whereby  she 
could  force  him  to  accede  to  her  wishes.  In  a  short 
time  she  had  thought  out  the  details  of  a  plan  which 
she  hastened  to  put  into  execution.  Going  to  her 
bedroom  she  quickly  undressed  and  put  on  her  most 
attractive  nightgown.  Taking  the  bottle  of  strych- 
nine from  the  drawer  where  she  kept  it  she  found 
that  seven  tablets  remained.  These  she  put  in  an 
envelope  which  she  carefully  hid  in  the  drawer.  The 
empty  bottle  and  a  glass  half-filled  with  water  she 
placed  on  the  table  by  her  bedside.  Then  she  turned 
on  all  the  electric  lights  and  went  to  bed.  When  her 
husband  returned  from  his  walk  she  would  assume  a 
great  drowsiness  and  would  revive  only  after  much 
effort  on  the  part  of  Hobbs.  Under  the  circum- 
stances Mercita  could  not  well  believe  that  he  would 
refuse  her  anything — certainly  not  a  new  dress. 


Mercita's  bedroom  was  already  filled  with  the 
morning  sunshine  when  she  was  awakened  by  a  loud 
knocking  at  her  door.  Before  she  was  quite  con- 

148 


THE    JOY    OF    DYING 

scious  or  had  realized  that  the  night  had  passed  and 
that  she  had  spent  it  alone,  the  door  was  thrown 
back  and  she  saw  the  frightened  face  of  her  maid, 
and,  in  the  doorway,  standing  behind  the  maid,  the 
big  heavy  form  of  Doctor  Brandt.  The  physician 
gently  brushed  aside  the  terror-stricken  maid  and 
going  over  to  the  bed  took  one  of  Mercita's  hands 
in  both  of  his  own. 

"Little  girl,"  he  said,  "I've  bad  news  for  you. 
Try  to  be  strong,  won't  you?" 

"Bexley?"  she  whispered. 

Brandt  nodded. 

"Dead?" 

"I'm  afraid  so,  Mercita.  I  don't  believe  it's  wise 
or  kind  to  hold  back  the  truth." 

Mercita  stared  at  the  physician  with  wide,  fright- 
ened eyes. 

"But  how,"  she  stammered,  "how?" 

"They  found  him  in  a  little  hotel  downtown.  It 
seems  he  took  a  room  there  late  last  night.  He'd 
turned  on  the  gas  and  had  gone  to  sleep.  Bexley 
didn't  suffer,  my  dear,  he  didn't  suffer  at  all." 

For  a  few  moments  there  was  silence  and  then 
Mercita  asked: 

"Did  he — did  Bexley  leave  no  word?" 
149 


THE    JOY    OF    DYING 

"Only  a  short  note  for  me,"  Brandt  said;  "just 
two  lines  scribbled  on  an  envelope.  He  told  me  where 
I  could  find  his  life  insurance  papers  and  to  see  that 
you  got  the  money." 


150 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME 
MARCHING   HOME 


is  a  forlorn  and  dismal  Virginia 
village  which,  years  ago,  several  Southern  railroads 
selected  as  a  suitable  place  for  a  junction.  At  this 
dreary  spot,  day  after  day,  night  after  night,  car- 
loads of  weary  passengers  are  dumped  out  of  stuffy 
cars  and  are  compelled  to  wait  for  trains  that  are 
invariably  late.  The  resources  of  Carrington  are 
limited  to  two  fruit  stands,  a  drug-store  and  the 
Central  Hotel,  which  in  all  ways  resembles  the  pic- 
tures in  the  newspapers  marked  "where  the  murder 
took  place."  Once  there  was  the  Altmont  Inn  —  a 
large,  commodious  resort  perched  on  a  prettily 
wooded  hill  just  across  the  railroad  tracks  from  the 
station. 

It  was  my  sad  fate  to  watch  the  Altmont  Inn  pass 
from  a  second-class,  fairly  successful,  summer  hotel 
to  a  weather-beaten,  decayed  tavern  fit  neither  for 
man  nor  beast.  I  knew  it  in  its  palmy  days,  when 
one  could  sit  in  a  rocking  chair  on  the  broad  piazza 

151 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

and  watch  tne  boarders  dancing  the  waltz  and  two- 
step  to  the  music  of  a  wheezing  violin  and  a  tinkling 
piano,  and  I  was  also  present  the  night  that  Johnnie 
Hardwick,  the  night-clerk,  sang  its  swan  song.  I 
had  gone  to  the  Inn  that  night,  as  was  my  custom 
whenever  I  visited  Carrington,  and,  in  the  dirty,  ill- 
lighted  office,  had  found,  with  much  difficulty,  a  sheet 
of  note-paper  sufficiently  clean  of  ink  stains  on  which 
to  write  a  letter.  When  I  had  finished  I  took  the 
letter  to  the  desk  and  found  Hardwick  waiting  for 
me  with  a  two-cent  stamp  in  his  hand.  He  was  a 
sallow-faced  youth,  not  more  than  twenty-five  years 
old,  I  should  think,  and  he  had  big,  round,  blue  eyes 
and  a  manner  that  made  you  like  the  boy  even  if  you 
mistrusted  him. 

"I  knew  you  were  going  to  ask  if  I  had  a  two-cent 
stamp,"  he  said,  and  his  thin,  anemic  lips  wavered 
into  a  wholly  charming  smile. 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

He  took  my  pennies  and,  ignoring  the  rusty  cash 
register,  dropped  them  in  the  pocket  of  his  very 
old  and  worn  coat. 

"Why,"  he  repeated,  "because  that's  the  only  kind 
of  guests  we  have  here  now,  and,  Bo,  I'll  let  you  in 
on  a  secret — there  ain't  much  profit  in  stamps." 

152 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

"All  in,  eh?"  I  suggested,  and  glanced  about  the 
deserted,  dust-begrimed  office. 

"Yep,"  Johnnie  laughed,  "we're  all  in.  The  boss 
is  drunk  in  the  kitchen  and  the  old  woman  is  trying 
to  put  her  six  squalling  brats  to  bed  in  the  bridal 
suite,  and  the  gas  company  has  turned  off  the  gas. 
Kerosene  is  pretty  low,  too,  and  we  can't  get  credit 
at  the  store." 

He  leaned  up  against  the  counter  and,  for  a  mo- 
ment, stared  idly  at  the  fly-specked  chandelier  that 
hung  over  his  head,  and  then  once  more  his  lips 
broke  into  the  same  charming,  irresponsible  smile. 
"I  don't  exactly  know  why  we  keep  open  any  more, 
except  the  boss  is  too  tight  to  give  the  orders  to 
close.  I "  suppose  you're  waiting  for  the  train  to 
God's  country." 

"I'm  going  to  New  York,"  I  said,  "if  that's  what 
you  mean." 

"That's  what  I  mean — God's  country,  the  big  pud- 
dle, the  old  town.  I  used  to  work  there — night-clerk 
at  the  Rosemont.  You  know,  West  Forty-fifth,  be- 
tween the  Hippodrome  and  the  Main  Alley."  He 
straightened  his  lithe,  well-knit  figure,  pursed  his  lips 
and,  with  an  expression  of  real  seriousness  in  his  eyes, 
looked  fairly  into  mine  and  slowly  shook  his  head. 

153 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

It  was  quite  evident  that  the  former  night-clerk  of 
the  Rosemont  keenly  regretted  the  evil  days  that 
had  befallen  him  and  the  ignominy  of  his  present 
surroundings. 

"Did  you  ever  know  Violet  Doane?"  he  asked  with 
a  sudden  and  renewed  interest,  "or  Mildred  De  Long 
or  Vera  Morris?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"No,"  he  said,  and  he  was  plainly  disappointed 
at  my  limited  acquaintance.  "They  all  used  to  stop 
at  the  Rosemont.  Nice  girls — you  know,  kind  of 
free  and  no  formality  about  'em.  Violet  Doane's 
with  the  Follies  this  year.  I  saw  her  picture  in  the 
Sunday  Telegraph.  Nice  girl,  Violet,  and  a  good 
friend  of  mine.  Good  times,  those!" 

"Why  did  you  leave  and  come  to  such  a  forsaken 
place  as  this?"  I  asked. 

Hardwick  glanced  up  at  me  as  suddenly  and  as 
sharply  as  if  I  had  struck  him,  and  when  he  an- 
swered me  he  spoke  slowly  and  with  much  delibera- 
tion, which  was  not  at  all  his  way. 

"They  fired  me,"  he  said,  "because  they  com- 
plained I  was  too  fresh  with  the  lady  guests ;  but 
you  know  those  girls  are  naturally  friendly.  It's 
their  way,  and  I  never  heard  yet  of  a  night-clerk 

154 


on  Forty-fifth  Street  being  a  Saint  Anthony.  -It's 
not  the  way  they  play  the  part,  but  I  got  fired  all 
right.  Then  I  drifted  around  New  York  for  a  while 
doing  any  old  job.  I  was  usher  at  Miner's  Eighth 
Avenue,  and  I  worked  in  Delaney's  pool-room  for  a 
few  months,  and  then  my  health  went  bad  and — 
His  voice  trailed  off  to  a  whisper,  and,  then,  he  seemed 
to  pull  himself  together  again  and  he  went  on.  "Then 
the  Doc  said  I  had  to  get  out,  and  an  old  friend  I 
knew  in  the  hotel  business  told  me  of  this  job  and 
I  came  right  down.  I've  been  here  ever  since.  It 
was  Violet  Doane,  I  was  speaking  about  to  you,  that 
staked  me  to  the  railroad  fare  and  got  me  some 
nice  clothes  and  things." 

He  looked  down  at  the  seedy,  threadbare  suit  he 
wore  and,  then,  glancing  at  me,  smiled  a  grim,  mirth- 
less smile  and  tossed  his  chin  in  the  air.  "Times  is," 
he  said,  "and  times  was,  eh!  Now  if  that  old  man 
out  there  in  the  kitchen  ever  comes  to,  I'll  be  fired 
again,  and  when  I  walk  out  of  that  door  I'll  have 
the  clothes  I've  got  on  my  back  and  the  stars  over 
my  head,  and  nothing  between." 

"I've  just  come  from  the  Madison  Springs,  where 
I  have  been  going  every  summer  for  twenty  years," 
I  said.  "The  assistant-clerk  over  there  left  yester- 

155 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

day.     I  heard  the  day-clerk  speaking  about  it  this 
afternoon.     Why  don't  you  try  for  that  job?" 

A  sudden  light  flashed  up  in  the  boy's  eyes  and 
then  vanished  as  quickly  as  it  had  come.  "No  use," 
he  said.  "I  know  about  that  Madison  Springs  Hotel. 
It's  a  nice,  old,  respectable  place  and  they'd  want 
good  references,  and  I  haven't  got  'em.  It  would 
have  been  a  great  chance,  though,  a  great  chance." 
And  then  the  light  once  more  flared  up  in  the  blue 
eyes  and  his  whole  manner  became  alert  and  eager. 
Even  before  he  spoke  the  words  I  was  sorry,  for  I 
knew  what  he  was  going  to  say  and  I  knew  that  I 
had  made  a  mistake  ever  to  have  mentioned  the 
vacancy  at  the  Madison  Springs.  As  Hardwick  had 
said,  it  was  an  old,  respectable  place,  dignified  and 
conservative,  and  the  last  hotel  to  harbor  this  boy 
graduate  from  the  Tenderloin.  I  think  he  knew  quite 
well  the  thought  that  was  in  my  mind,  for  he  seized 
me  eagerly  by  the  arm,  and  with  his  big  eyes  he 
fairly  begged  me  to  help  him. 

"You  wouldn't  do  it,"  he  whispered,  "would  you? 
Not  after  all  I've  told  you  about  the  Rosemont  and 
my  being  an  usher,  and  working  in  the  poolroom, 
and  Violet  Doane  and  all  that.  Of  course  you 
wouldn't.  But  you  don't  know  what  a  chance  like 

156 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

that  would  be  for  me.  It  would  give  me  another 
start.  The  Doc  told  me  I'd  die  if  I  went  back  to  the 
big  town,  and  I'm  broke  and  I'm  going  to  be  thrown 
out.  I  tell  you  I'll  starve.  For  God's  sake,  mister, 
whatever  your  name  is,  please  say  a  good  word  for 
me.  I'll  promise  you  I'll  behave.  I  promise  you. 
Please  give  me  a  chance."  There  was  a  telephone 
on  the  desk,  and  he  suddenly  pushed  it  toward  me. 
"Please,  please,"  he  begged. 

In  the  pathetic  figure  before  me  there  was  nothing 
at  all  of  the  swaggering,  smiling  ex-clerk  of  the  Rose- 
mont.  Just  a  poor,  sick  boy,  who  saw  the  hope  of 
a  roof  to  cover  him  and  a  chance  to  start  life  again 
in  a  better,  decenter  way,  and  for  the  moment  I  knew 
that  he "  believed  that  if  he  were  given  the  chance 
that  he  could  and  would  make  good. 

In  five  minutes  it  was  all  over,  and  such  a  mistake 
as  I  had  made  on  account  of  my  sympathy  for  the 
boy  had  been  made  beyond  recall.  On  my  recom- 
mendation as  to  his  ability  and  moral  character, 
Johnnie  Hardwick  had  been  promised  the  position 
of  under-clerk  at  the  Madison  Springs,  and  in  an- 
other five  minutes  we  had  both  left  the  Altmont  Inn, 
and  both  of  us  for  the  last  time. 

A  month  later  when  I  returned  to  the  Madison 
157 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

Springs  Johnnie  Hardwick  was  the  first  to  greet  me. 
But  it  was  a  very  different  Johnnie  Hardwick  from 
the  one  I  had  left  that  night  at  Carrington.  The 
blue  eyes  shone  clear,  his  face  looked  less  like  putty, 
and  the  shadows  and  the  lines  put  there  by  dissipa- 
tion and  the  lack  of  healthy  food  had  almost  dis- 
appeared. The  seedy,  gray  suit  had  given  way  to  a 
natty  blue  serge  coat  and  a  pair  of  carefully  creased 
white  flannels.  His  joy  at  seeing  me  was  appar- 
ently real,  and  after  he  had  gripped  my  hand  he 
stepped  back  from  the  desk  to  show  me  the  beauty 
of  his  raiment. 

"Pretty  nifty,  eh?"  he  laughed.  "I  wish  some  of 
those  ginks  on  Broadway  that  had  me  for  down  and 
out  could  see  me  now."  He  pushed  the  register 
toward  me  and  as  he  gave  me  a  pen  he  turned  his 
hand  so  that  the  sunlight  that  streamed  in  through 
the  office  window  fell  full  on  a  valuable  diamond  ring. 
"A  little  souvenir  from  one  of  the  lady  guests,"  he 
explained  with  evident  pride.  "Pretty  little  thing, 
isn't  it?" 

"Why,  Hardwick,"  I  protested,  "you  shouldn't  be 
taking  rings  from  the  women  guests.  You  know  you 
promised  to'be  good." 

Johnnie  fairly  laughed  aloud.  "I'm  good,  all  right. 
158 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

I've  played  the  innocent  kid  as  if  I'd  been  trained  for 
it  by  Belasco.  They're  all  crazy  about  me.  The 
dame  that  gave  me  that  ring  was  older  than  the 
mountains  around  here,  and  she  spent  two  hours 
every  morning  hanging  over  the  desk  telling  me  how 
cute  her  grandchildren  were.  She  wanted  to  adopt 
me,  but  I  compromised  on  the  ring."  He  leaned 
toward  me  and  his  voice  fell  to  a  whisper.  "And  I 
tell  you,  Bo,  it  was  coming  to  me.  Those  comic 
sayings  of  the  grandchildren  was  pretty  poor  comedy 
and  awful  old  stuff." 

For  the  time  further  conversation  was  impossible, 
as  one  of  the  women  guests  came  to  inquire  about 
some  picture  postal-cards  and,  in  his  desire  to  serve 
the  newcomer,  Johnnie  apparently  forgot  my  exist- 
ence entirely.  Half  an  hour  later,  when  I  returned 
from  breakfast,  I  found  at  least  half  a  dozen  of  the 
prettiest  girls  at  the  Springs  hanging  over  the  desk 
and  chatting  and  laughing  merrily  with  my  protege. 
All  that  I  learned  later  that  day  and  night  convinced 
me  that  Hardwick  had  made  a  distinct  niche  for 
himself  in  the  social  life  of  the  Springs.  To  the 
younger  set  of  girls  he  was  a  sort  of  Bunthorne  in 
flannels ;  the  older  women  liked  him  for  his  ever- ready 
courtesy,  and  the  men,  although  they  probably  un- 

159 


derstood  him,  found  his  glib  tongue  amusing  and  his 
eager,  fever-like  readiness  to  join  in  anything  and 
everything  that  was  going  on  not  only  interesting 
but  often  useful. 

At  some  period  in  his  murky  past  Johnnie  must 
have  been  an  ash-lot  ball-player,  because  he  was 
promptly  installed  as  the  regular  catcher  of  the 
hotel  nine,  and  largely  through  his  efforts  the  team 
became  the  champions  of  the  valley.  He  had  also 
learned  to  play  a  fair  beginner's  game  of  golf,  and 
he  was  always  ready  to  join  a  riding  party  and  take 
a  chance  with  any  horse  that  was  too  decrepit  or 
too  spirited  for  the  others  to  ride.  It  was,  however, 
in  the  ballroom  at  night  that  Johnnie's  star  shone 
the  brightest.  Even  if  he  had  learned  his  dancing 
in  Harlem  casinos  and  the  dance-halls  of  the  East 
Side,  he  had  learned  his  lesson  well,  and  he  played  no 
favorites.  He  danced  with  the  little  girls  of  ten,  and 
the  twenty-year-old  daughters  of  the  northern  mil- 
lionnaires,  and  the  elderly  wives  of  the  first  families 
of  Virginia,  always  with  equal  grace,  and  always  with 
exactly  the  same  amount  of  apparent  abandon  and 
tireless  enthusiasm. 

And,  so,  although  Hardwick's  English  was  not  al- 
ways polished  and  sometimes  he  forgot  the  dignity 

160 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

of  his  present  surroundings,  and  when  with  the  men 
occasionally  relapsed  into  the  lingo  and  tales  of  his 
hectic  past,  he  was  liked  for  his  unquestioned  accom- 
plishments, a  certain  innate  courtesy,  and  an  ever- 
lasting desire  to  please. 

As  an  instance  of  his  cleverness  he  told  me  that 
he  had  always  refused  to  play  poker.  "I'd  queer 
myself  with  the  mothers  if  I  played  with  the  boys," 
he  explained,  "and  the  old  men  know  that  no  man 
should  gamble  with  a  hotel  clerk's  salary;  but,  be- 
lieve me,  I've  watched  'em,  and  it  hurts  not  to  sit 
in  when  they  ask  you.  It  would  be  as  easy  as 
money  from  the  old  folks  at  home,  only  there'd  be 
more  of  it."  And,  knowing  Johnnie's  former  asso- 
ciation "with  professional  gamblers,  I  did  not  doubt 
that  his  confidence  in  his  own  prowess  was  well 
placed. 

Of  his  ability  to  get  on  with  men  there  was  no 
question.  It  was  only  in  his  relationship  with  women 
that  I  feared  for  my  protege.  That  he  had  known 
many  and  that  they  had  liked  him  better  than  most 
men  I  knew  from  episodes  that  he  had  told  me  of 
his  past.  Not  that  Hardwick  boasted  of  his  con- 
quests, because  he  certainly  never  regarded  himself 
in  the  light  of  a  hero.  He  spoke  of  his  love-affairs 

161 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

as  he  did  of  his  hardships,  or  a  big  coup  at  the  race- 
track, or  a  good  fight  in  the  back-room  of  a  bar- 
room. They  were  just  incidents  in  a  short  life  which 
had  been  crowded  with  incidents.  But  that  they  had 
played  the  big  and  the  dominating  part  in  his  life 
of  adventure  there  could  be  no  doubt  whatever,  al- 
though, to  give  him  credit,  I  do  not  believe  that 
Johnnie  himself  knew  this. 

I  suppose  it  was  out  of  gratitude  for  having  ob- 
tained his  present  comfortable  position  for  him  that 
I  was  the  only  man  at  the  Springs  whom  he  chose 
to  honor  with  his  confidence.  We  were  sitting  alone 
late  one  night  on  the  piazza,  and  I  suppose  it  was 
the  moonlight  and  the  wonderful  beauty  of  the  silent 
fields  and  the  ridges  of  endless  hills  that  made  him 
talk. 

"I've  got  a  lot  to  thank  you  for,"  he  said;  "a 
whole  lot." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  I  protested.  "I  only  got  you 
the  chance.  It  was  up  to  you  to  make  good,  and 
you  did  it." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  simply.  "If  you  think  I've 
made  good,  I  don't  care  very  much  about  the  rest. 
But  I'll  tell  you  it  hasn't  always  been  so  easy  to 
keep  going,  and  to  bluff,  and  to  tell  'em  just  enough 

162 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

to  keep  'em  laughing  and  not  quite  enough  to  get 
thrown  out.     And  these  dames  up  here  .  .  ." 

"The  women  guests,"  I  suggested. 

"Yes,  dames,  skirts  .  .  .  you  know.  I  never  was 
by  way  of  meeting  real  swells  before." 

"Do  you  like  the  change?"  I  asked. 

Hardwick  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"Why,  yes,  of  course,  but  I  can't  quite  make  'em 
out.  Sometimes  they're  so  like  the  other  women  I've 
known.  Do  you  suppose  all  women  are  alike  in  some 
ways  ?" 

But  before  I  could  answer  him  he  asked  suddenly : 
"Do  you  know  Margaret  Warren  ?  Her  mother  runs 
the  boarding-house  at  Jackson's  Farm." 

I  knew  Jackson's  Farm  as  a  sort  of  refined  road- 
house  where  the  people  from  the  Madison  Springs 
went  for  fried  chicken  and  waffle  suppers.  For  many 
years  I  had  enjoyed  a  speaking  acquaintance  with 
the  Widow  Warren  and  had  seen  her  daughter  Mar- 
garet grow  from  a  delicate  child  to  a  healthy,  rosy- 
cheeked  country  girl  of  eighteen. 

"Yes,"  I  said.     "Why?" 

A  slight  color  came  into  Johnnie's  gray  face,  and 
I  suppose  in  any  other  face  it  would  have  been  a 
blush. 

163 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

"Why,"  he  repeated ;  "I  don't  know,  except  I  think 
she's  a  wonder.  She's  not  like  the  rest.  .  .  .  She's 
different,  all  right." 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  Margaret  very  well,"  I 
said,  and  wondered  why,  of  all  the  women  Hardwick 
had  met  that  summer,  he  should  pick  out  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  lady  who  ran  the  boarding-house  at  Jack- 
son's Farm.  In  all  ways  she  seemed  the  antithesis 
of  the  girl  that  would  attract  him.  Simple  and  un- 
sophisticated, I  knew  that  in  case  she  liked  Johnnie 
she  would  be  as  putty  in  his  hands.  It  was  just  a 
question  as  to  the  angle  from  which  he  regarded  her. 

"Have  you  seen  much  of  her?"  I  asked. 

"Not  a  great  deal,"  he  said.  "She  never  comes  to 
the  hotel  here,  and  it's  a  good  two-mile  walk  to  the 
Farm.  I  see  her  when  I  go  there  with  parties  for 
dinner — she  waits  on  the  table  generally.  And  I've 
been  there  by  myself  several  times  and  had  a  couple 
of  walks  and  talks  with  her,  and  once  we  went  for  a 
long  ride  to  Mason's  Crossroads.  Gee,  but  how  that 
kid  can  ride!  She  calls  me  Othello,  because  I  tell 
her  of  all  the  strange  places  I've  seen  and  the  crazy 
things  I've  done." 

"All?"  I  asked. 

Johnnie  grinned  foolishly  and  shook  his  head. 
164 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

"No,  not  exactly.  I  only  hand  her  the  expurgated 
copy.  She  wouldn't  know  what  I  was  talking  about 
if  I  told  her  the  whole  truth  and  nothing  but  the 
truth.  She's  the  finest  bit  of  'calico'  I  ever  met 
with." 

And  by  the  manner  of  his  saying  it  I  knew  that 
Margaret — that  is,  so  far  as  Johnnie  Hardwick  was 
concerned — was  in  safe  hands. 

If  I  had  any  doubts  on  the  question  the  unhappy 
incident  that  occurred  a  week  later  would  have  com- 
pletely dispelled  them.  A  large  crowd  from  the 
hotel  had  gone  over  to  Jackson's  Farm  for  supper, 
and  Johnnie  and  I  were  included  in  the  party.  As 
usual,  Margaret  waited  on  the  table,  and  I  could 
not  see  that  Hardwick  took  any  particular  notice  of 
the  girl,  or  that  she  was  any  more  assiduous  in  her 
attentions  to  him  than  she  was  to  the  other  guests. 
But  when  supper  was  over  and  the  rest  of  the  party 
had  gone  to  the  sitting-room  to  dance,  I  missed  the 
clerk  and  took  it  for  granted  that  he  had  wandered 
off  somewhere  with  Margaret.  It  was  a  particularly 
lively  party  that  night  and  the  scene  in  the  sitting- 
room  when  the  dancing  was  at  its  height  was  joyous 
in  the  extreme.  As  there  were  no  drinks  sold  at 
Jackson's  Farm  the  guests  brought  their  own  bot- 

165 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

tied  goods  with  them,  and  sometimes — and  I  am 
afraid  that  this  was  one  of  those  times — they  brought 
too  many.  Several  of  the  men  were  particularly 
gay,  but  until  the  time  that  Johnnie  and  Margaret 
made  their  appearance  there  had  been  nothing  but 
a  good  deal  of  noise  and  a  general  display  of  youth- 
ful hilarity  and  spirits.  Margaret  remained  in  the 
doorway,  while  Johnnie  had  moved  a  few  feet  away 
from  her  to  speak  to  a  group  of  girls  who  were 
resting  from  the  very  arduous  dancing.  Tommy 
Wilson,  who  was  the  most  befuddled  of  the  young 
men  of  the  party,  caught  sight  of  the  pretty  country 
girl  standing  in  the  doorway  and,  although  at  the 
time  he  was  dancing  with  one  of  the  girls  from  the 
Springs,  he  suddenly  left  his  partner  and  made  a 
rush  for  Margaret.  Before  she  had  time  to  know 
what  was  really  happening,  Wilson  had  seized  her 
round  the  waist  and,  in  an  attempt  to  make  her  dance, 
was  dragging  her  rather  roughly  about  the  floor. 
It  was  one  of  those  occasions  when  a  girl  more  know- 
ing in  the  ways  of  the  world  would  have  accepted 
the  situation  and  have  humored  her  evidently  too 
hilarious  admirer.  But  Margaret  lacked  the  poise 
and  the  tact  of  a  girl  more  used  to  the  ways  of  the 
world  in  which  she  suddenly  found  herself.  With  a 

166 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

purely  primitive  instinct  she  believed  that  she  was 
being  insulted,  turned  scarlet  with  rage  and  mortifi- 
cation, and  made  violent  and  entirely  futile  efforts  to 
free  herself  from  her  unwelcome  partner.  Fearing 
what  would  happen  and,  as  it  came  to  pass,  exactly 
what  did  happen,  I  started  to  mildly  interfere.  But 
I  was  far  across  the  room,  and  long  before  I  could 
reach  the  struggling  girl  Johnnie  Hardwick  had 
rushed  to  her  rescue.  In  two  bounds  he  had  reached 
the  man's  side  and,  with  the  blind,  ungovernable  rage 
that  he  had  acquired  years  before  in  his  gutter  life, 
he  swung  his  right  to  the  point  of  Wilson's  jaw. 
As  the  noise  of  the  blow  echoed  through  the  silent 
room,  filled  with  its  now  thoroughly  terrified  guests, 
Wilson  "uttered  a  half-articulate  cry,  his  strong 
broad  frame  crumpled  and,  sliding  through  Mar- 
garet's arms,  fell  to  the  floor  an  unconscious,  help- 
less mass. 

Never  had  I  seen  a  cleaner  cut  piece  of  work  nor 
better  done,  but  I  was  sorry.  Deserved  it  was,  no 
doubt,  but  the  same  result  might  have  been  gained  in 
a  more  diplomatic  and  peaceful  way  and  in  a  manner 
that  would  have  portended  less  sure  disaster  to  John- 
nie Hardwick.  The  Wilsons  had  been  visitors  at  the 
Springs  for  many  years,  were  rich,  their  wishes  went 

167 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

far,  and  Tommy  Wilson  was  neither  a  generous  foe 
nor  a  man  who  easily  forgot.  Some  of  the  women 
led  Margaret,  weeping  hysterically,  from  the  scene 
of  the  disaster,  while  the  men  threw  water  in  Wilson's 
face,  poured  brandy  through  his  drawn,  parched 
lips,  and  gradually  brought  him  back  to  semicon- 
sciousness.  The  only  one  who  did  not  try  to  assist 
was  Johnnie,  who  stood  next  to  me,  on  the  edge  of 
the  crowd  and,  with  folded  arms  and  his  face  gone 
quite  white  with  rage,  looked  down  on  his  slowly 
reviving  victim. 

"The  rat,"  he  whispered  to  me  through  his  clenched 
teeth.  "Did  you  see  how  the  bully  toppled  after 
the  first  crack?" 

The  boy's  pale  lips  wavered  into  an  ugly  smile 
and  his  whole  look  was  that  of  a  fighting  terrier. 
"Did  you  notice  that  uppercut  I  handed  him?"  he 
snarled.  "It  was  a  sweet  wallop  for  sure.  Teddy 
Burns  taught  me  that  when  we  both  ran  with  the 
Doonin  gang.  It's  a  great  blow  when  you  got  'em 
ready  for  the  count,  and  it's  good,  too,  for  drunken 
men  who  haven't  got  no  more  sense  than  to  insult 
innocent  girls." 

I  took  Johnnie  by  the  arm,  and  after  he  had 
stopped  to  turn  one  more  malicious  glance  at  the 

168 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

man  on  the  floor,  he  allowed  me  to  lead  him  unre- 
sisting from  the  room.  The  piazza  was  filled  with 
little  groups  of  excited  girls  and  women  eagerly 
whispering  about  the  fight,  and  so  Hardwick  and  I 
walked  out  on  the  lawn  and  sat  down  on  a  bench 
that  overlooked  the  meadows  down  in  the  valley 
and  the  endless  hills  all  bathed  in  the  silver  moon- 
light. For  some  time  there  was  silence  between  us. 
I  lighted  a  cigar  and  Johnnie  sat  with  his  hands 
between  his  knees,  his  palms  pressed  closely  together, 
and  his  unseeing  eyes  fixed  on  the  undulating  ridges 
of  the  distant  mountains. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?"  I  asked  at 
last. 

Johnnie  glanced  at  me,  and  in  the  moonlight  I 
could  see  that  the  look  of  rage  had  cleared  from 
his  face  and  in  a  feeble  way  he  tried  to  smile. 

"Do,"  he  said.  "Why,  what  can  I  do  but  get 
out?  What  chance  has  a  hotel  clerk  got  against 
that  young  cub  with  all  his  money  and  his  family 
and  friends  behind  him?" 

"The  management  might  back  you  up,"  I  sug- 
gested. "From  all  you  say  they  have  treated  you 
very  well  over  there." 

But  Johnnie  only  shook  his  head  and  continued 
169 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

to  gaze  across  the  valley.  "That's  just  it,"  he  said. 
"They've  treated  me  so  darned  well  that  I  don't  want 
to  put  them  in  wrong.  That  blackguard  has  my 
goat  all  right  and  I've  got  to  get  out."  For  a 
moment  he  was  silent  again  and  when  I  glanced  at 
the  pale,  putty  face  I  saw  that  the  lips  were  pressed 
into  a  hard,  straight  line,  and  the  big,  blue  eyes  were 
half  closed  and  looked  very  tired  and  misty.  He  laid 
his  hand  on  my  knee  and  when  he  spoke  there  was 
a  catch  in  his  voice  and  it  scarcely  rose  above  a 
whisper. 

After  all,  Johnnie  was  only  a  boy  in  years  and 
almost  a  stranger  to  this  better,  sweeter  kind  of  life. 
"It's  pretty  tough,  Bo,"  he  said;  "I  tell  you,  it's 
pretty  tough.  Just  when  things  seemed  to  be  com- 
ing my  way  and  I  was  getting  on,  and  mixing  with 
white  folks,  and  living  decent.  Then  the  joker  in 
the  pack  turns  up  like  it  did  to-night  and  I  see  red 
and  forget  I'm  not  back  with  the  Doonin  gang  fight- 
ing the  Cooley  crowd.  And  it's  a  funny  thing,  but 
all  my  troubles  seem  to  come  from  women — good 
women  and  bad  women — but  always  women." 

With  the  suggestion  of  a  sigh  and  a  shrug  of  his 
shoulders  he  got  up,  stretched  his  arms  above  his 

170 


head  and  turned  to  look  toward  the  piazza,  of  the 
farmhouse. 

"Wilson's  all  right  again,"  he  said.  "He's  sitting 
up  there  on  the  porch  with  a  lot  of  girls  bathing  his 
head." 

He  started  to  walk  away  and,  then,  turning  back, 
in  an  awkward,  shy  sort  of  way,  held  out  his  hand 
toward  me. 

"I'm  obliged  to  you,"  he  said,  "for  looking  after 
me  to-night.  I  owe  you  a  lot  one  way  or  another, 
and  I'm  sorry  I  didn't  make  good." 

I  tried  to  say  something,  but  by  way  of  protest 
he  threw  up  his  hand. 

"That's  all  right,  I  understand,"  he  said.  "And 
I  wish  you'd  tell  them  up  there  that  I've  taken  the 
runabout  and  am  going  to  drive  back  alone.  I 
brought  young  Morris  over  with  me,  but  there's 
plenty  of  room  for  him  in  one  of  the  big  carriages. 
Good-night." 

He  swung  abruptly  on  his  heel  and  I  watched  him 
slowly  crossing  the  lawn  on  his  way  to  the  stables. 
His  head  was  held  high  and  his  shoulders  thrown 
back,  I  imagine  because  he  knew  that  the  crowd  on 
the  porch  could  easily  see  him  in  the  moonlight  and 
he  wanted  to  appear  to  be  independent  of  them  and 

171 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

not  to  care.  But  I  knew  that  he  cared  more  than 
Johnnie  Hardwick  had  the  language  to  tell  how  much 
he  cared,  and  that  the  silent  figure  slowly  crossing 
the  moonlit  lawn  was  the  most  unhappy,  lonely  soul 
in  the  whole  world. 

When  I  came  down  to  breakfast  the  following 
morning  I  found  Johnnie  all  packed  and  ready  for 
his  departure. 

"I  resigned  before  they  had  a  chance  to  fire  me," 
he  laughed.  "I  telephoned  to  Jackson's  Farm  this 
morning  and  Mrs.  Warren  says  she'll  take  me  in 
over  there.  I'm  not  broke,  you  see,  so  I'm  going  to 
the  Farm  and  sit  in  front  of  the  office  desk  for  a 
while  instead  of  standing  behind  it.  The  old  lady's 
all  for  me  for  knocking  out  Wilson  last  night  and 
she's  going  to  give  me  rates.  It's  an  ill  wind  that 
blows  nobody — not  even  poor  little  Johnnie  Hard- 
wick — good,  eh?" 

With  a  very  small  capital  and  no  plans  or  pros- 
pects for  the  future,  but  his  spirits  and  his  flippant 
gaiety  apparently  entirely  restored,  Johnnie  left  the 
Madison  Springs.  With  a  cheer  of  farewell  and 
good  luck  a  few  of  us  started  him  on  his  way  to  Jack- 
son's Farm  and  to  his  new  life  as  a  paying  boarder. 
But  I  felt  instinctively  that  the  new  life  would  not 

172 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

prove  a  success,  and  my  instincts  on  this  occasion 
proved  entirely  correct. 

Twice  during  the  following  week  I  saw  him  and 
on  both  occasions  he  was  with  Margaret.  Once  I 
met  them  driving  along  a  wood  road  in  Margaret's 
runabout,  and  the  other  time  I  found  them  sitting  on 
a  fallen  tree  near  the  lane  that  led  to  the  Farm. 
Johnnie  was  evidently  telling  the  girl  some  marvellous 
adventure  from  the  past,  for  she  was  listening  to 
him  with  the  most  rapt  attention,  but  when  I  called 
to  them  they  jumped  up  from  the  log  and  came  run- 
ning to  meet  me  like  a  couple  of  happy  children. 
For  a  few  minutes  we  stood  talking  and  laughing 
at  the  side  of  the  road.  Johnnie  told  me  that  al- 
though His  funds  were  almost  gone,  he  was  so  pleased 
with  his  present  life  that  he  intended  to  become  a 
permanent  paying  guest  at  Mrs.  Warren's,  and 
Margaret  assured  me  that  Johnnie,  although  a 
boarder,  did  most  of  the  work  and  was  the  greatest 
asset  Jackson's  Farm  had  ever  known.  When  I  left 
them  I  was  quite  sure  that  my  fears  as  to  the  success 
of  Hardwick's  life  at  the  Farm  were  groundless,  and 
I  even  dared  to  hope  that  some  day  he  would  marry 
Margaret  and  settle  down  as  the  real  manager  of  a 
real  roadhouse.  But  again  my  best  wishes  for 

173 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

Johnnie's  welfare  went  wrong,  and  it  was  certainly 
through  no  fault  of  his  present  life,  even  if  it  were 
of  his  somewhat  lurid  past. 

Two  days  after  I  had  met  Johnnie  and  Margaret 
by  the  roadside  I  was  greatly  surprised  to  receive 
a  visit  from  Mrs.  Warren.  For  many  years  I  had 
known  Mrs.  Warren  as  the  proprietress  of  Jackson's 
Farm  and  as  a  sweet,  kindly,  well-born  lady  who  had 
been  forced  by  reduced  circumstances  to  run  a  road- 
house,  but  hitherto  I  had  never  enjoyed  anything 
approaching  her  confidence.  That  she  had  learned 
through  Johnnie  himself  or  through  others  that  the 
young  man  was  by  way  of  being  a  protege  of  mine 
and  that  the  present  visit  was  in  some  way  connected 
with  him  I  had  no  doubt  whatever.  It  took  a  long 
time  for  the  good  lady  to  tell  her  story,  and  it  was 
not  told  without  considerable  lamentation  and  many 
tears.  In  the  short  time  that  he  had  known  her 
Johnnie  had  evidently  endeared  himself  to  the  old 
lady,  as  he  did  to  all  women  of  all  ages.  But  whether 
it  was  through  her  own  ingenuousness  or  Johnnie's 
failure  to  speak  freely  of  all  of  his  past,  Mrs.  War- 
ren had  apparently  formed  an  entirely  erroneous 
idea  of  the  young  man's  early  life.  In  any  case  it 
was  certainly  the  very  last  word  in  hard  luck  stories. 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

It  seemed  that  on  the  previous  evening  an  automobile 
party  from  New  York,  who  were  turning  a  pro- 
tracted tour  of  the  South  into  one  continuous  joy- 
ride,  had  stopped  for  dinner  and  the  night  at  Jack- 
son's Farm.  Whether  the  two  ladies  of  the  party 
were  Violet  Doane  or  Mildred  De  Long  or  any  of 
the  other  former  friends  of  Hardwick  whom  he  knew 
when  he  was  at  the  Rosemont  I  do  not  know,  but 
that  they  were  very  beautiful  ladies  and  very  gay 
and  very  old  friends  of  Johnnie  there  could  be  no 
doubt  whatever.  According  to  Mrs.  Warren,  no 
sooner  had  the  two  young  women  alighted  from  the 
automobile  and  recognized  her  favorite  guest  than 
the  echoes  of  their  cheers  of  delight  and  the  endear- 
ing names  they  called  him  could  be  heard  reverberat- 
ing from  mountain  to  mountain,  up  and  down  the 
entire  length  of  the  valley. 

"Pretty  girls  both  of  them,  very  pretty  girls," 
Mrs.  Warren  admitted,  drawing  her  slight  figure 
very  taut,  "but  my  belief  is  that  they  were,  if  you 
will  pardon  the  expression,  scarlet  women.  Being 
such  old  friends  of  Mr.  Hardwick  I  couldn't  very 
well  refuse  them  board  and  lodging  for  the  night, 
but  the  way  they  carried  on  was  something  scan- 
dalous. Mr.  Hardwick,  I  must  say,  behaved  very 

175 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

well,  and  didn't  want  to  have  dinner  with  them,  but 
they  would  have  it  their  own  way.  We've  had  some 
pretty  gay  parties  at  the  Farm,  as  you  know,  but 
never  such  a  noisy  one  as  that  one  last  night.  They 
got  away  this  morning,  I'm  happy  to  say,  but  what 
I  came  to  see  you  about  is  Mr.  Hardwick." 

I  tried  to  look  sympathetic  and  expressed  great 
faith  in  Johnnie's  nobility  of  character,  but  I  knew 
that  so  far  as  Jackson's  Farm  was  concerned  his 
fate  was  sealed. 

"I  wouldn't  care  for  myself,"  the  good  lady  went 
on  tearfully,  "but  I  don't  think  that  any  young  man 
with  friends  like  that  is  a  fit  companion  for  my 
Margaret.  And  the  worst  of  it  is  Margaret  likes 
him.  The  girl  is  sort  of  fascinated  by  his  city  ways 
and  she  won't  have  anything  more  to  do  with  any  of 
the  boys  in  the  valley." 

"But  what  can  I  possibly  do?"  I  asked. 

"You  must  ask  him  to  go  away,"  Mrs.  Warren 
begged.  "If  I  did  it  Margaret  would  never  speak  to 
me  again.  Young  girls  can't  understand  that  a 
mother  is  only  trying  to  do  what  is  best  for  them. 
Please,  please  ask  him  to  go  away." 

The  old  lady  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  her 
frail  shoulders  shook  in  a  series  of  long,  low  sobs. 

176 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

Once  more  it  seemed  that  Hardwick  must  be  starting 
on  his  way  and  once  more  for  the  same  old  reason. 
My  conscience  told  me  that  Mrs.  Warren  was  prob- 
ably right  and,  so,  with  great  reluctance,  I  promised 
to  grant  her  request. 

That  afternoon  I  drove  over  to  the  Farm  and 
once  more  Johnnie  and  I  sat  on  the  lawn  and  talked 
a  very  sincere  heart-to-heart  talk.  There  was  no 
moonlight  now,  but  the  soft,  cool  air  was  filled  with 
the  wonderful  golden  glow  of  the  late  summer  after- 
noon. Before  us  lay  the  valley,  rich  in  its  waving 
cornfields  and  velvety  green  pasture  meadows,  and, 
far  beyond,  the  protecting  hills  rising  to  meet  the 
clear  blue  sky.  Friendly  robins  were  hopping  and 
chirping  about  us  on  the  lawn ;  we  could  see  the  cows 
grazing  in  the  meadows  and  the  swarms  of  white 
chickens  at  the  chicken  farm  down  the  hill,  near  the 
well-kept,  well-filled  barns;  and  we  could  hear  the 
dogs  baying  to  be  let  loose  from  the  stables.  Here 
was  surely  a  scene  of  peace  and  plenty  which  was 
not  easy  to  ask  a  man  to  leave  for  any  odd  job  that 
might  await  him  beyond  the  hills  that  shut  in  this 
restful  valley  from  the  turmoil  of  the  big  world 
outside. 

I  rather  imagine  that  Johnnie  had  at  once  guessed 
177 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

the  object  of  my  mission,  for  he  listened  to  my  words 
in  silence  and  without  a  protest  of  any  kind  what- 
ever. When  I  had  finished  he  looked  up  at  me  as 
a  dog  might  look  at  the  master  who  had  struck  him. 
He  got  up  from  the  bench  and,  with  his  hands  resting 
on  his  hips,  looked  slowly  about  him — at  the  house, 
and  at  the  stables,  and  at  the  well-tilled  fields,  and 
at  the  rolling  meadows  and  the  wooded  hills.  Several 
times  his  lips  parted  as  if  he  were  going  to  say  some- 
thing, but  each  time  the  words  seemed  to  die  in  his 
parched  throat. 

"I'm  terribly  sorry,  Johnnie,"  I  said  at  last,  know- 
ing perfectly  well  how  inadequate  anything  I  could 
say  must  be  to  the  boy;  "is  there  nothing  I  can 
do?" 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "You  can  take  me  and  my  suit- 
case over  to  the  station.  I'd  just  about  have  time 
to  catch  the  evening  train.  It  won't  take  me  but  a 
few  minutes  to  pack." 

I  knew  that  he  bade  good-bye  to  Mrs.  Warren,  but 
I  think  that  Margaret  must  have  been  away  from  the 
farm  at  the  moment,  because  from  something  he  said 
I'm  quite  sure  that  he  did  not  see  her  again.  In  al- 
most complete  silence  we  drove  down  the  hill,  out  the 
gate,  and  along  the  shady  road  that  led  to  the  sta- 

178 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

tion.  When  we  had  reached  our  destination  there 
was  still  half  an  hour  before  Johnnie's  train  left  for 
Carrington,  but  he  insisted  that  I  should  not  wait, 
but  return  at  once  to  the  Springs.  I  offered  to  loan 
him  some  money,  but  he  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"No,  thank  you,"  he  said.  "I've  got  a  little  some- 
thing left  from  my  wages,  and  besides,  I'm  a  tramp 
clerk,  and  we  swell  hoboes  never  borrow." 

"Have  you  any  plans?"  I  asked. 

Again  he  shook  his  head  and  smiled  the  same  mirth- 
less smile. 

"No,  nothing  for  the  present,"  he  said.  "Some 
time,  if  I  ever  really  make  good,  I'd  like  to  go  back 
there,"  and  he  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the  farm. 
"I  think,  you'd  better  be  going  now,"  he  added, 
"you'll  be  late  for  supper.  Thank  you  for  all  you've 
done,  and  if  you  don't  mind  I'll  look  you  up  when 
I  get  back  to  the  big  town." 

I  gave  him  my  address  and  we  shook  hands  and 
as  I  drove  away  I  glanced  back  and  saw  the  boy 
sitting  on  his  valise  on  the  deserted  platform  waiting 
for  the  train  that  was  to  carry  him  somewhere,  any- 
where, to  a  new  land  of  adventure. 

A  year  or  more  elapsed  before  Hardwick  kept 
his  promise  to  look  me  up  in  the  big  town,  although, 

179 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

during  the  interval,  I  heard  of  him  once  and  directly 
from  him  several  times.  A  man  I  knew  and  who  was 
staying  at  Madison  Springs  when  Johnnie  was  there 
saw  him  the  following  winter  in  Havana.  He  met 
him  at  a  masquerade  ball  where  the  women,  at  least, 
were  not  of  the  great  world  of  society,  and  my  friend 
assured  me  that  Hardwick  was  apparently  the  life 
of  the  party  and  the  unquestioned  beau  of  the  ball. 
My  correspondence  with  him  was  entirely  by  picture 
postal-cards  and  altogether  one-sided,  as  he  never 
gave  me  any  address  to  which  I  could  write  him. 
The  first  card  arrived  soon  after  my  return  to  New 
York  and  came  from  Atlanta,  which  showed  that  he 
had  taken  a  southern  course  after  leaving  Virginia. 
At  spasmodic  intervals  I  afterward  heard  from  him 
from  Macon,  New  Orleans,  Santiago  and  Panama. 
Just  some  foolish  picture-cards  which  he  thought 
would  appeal  to  my  sense  of  humor,  and  a  few 
scribbled  words  of  good  wishes,  but  nothing  of 
himself  or  of  his  doings.  About  Christmas-time  I 
received  the  last  message  from  him.  It  came  in  the 
form  of  a  picture  of  a  holly  wreath,  and  in  the  centre 
was  inscribed  a  very  bad  poem  wishing  me  good  cheer 
and  the  blessings  of  the  Yuletide  season. 

Then  followed  almost  six  months  of  silence  and 
180 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

I  thought  that  Johnnie  had  forgotten  me  entirely, 
but  one  day  in  the  early  summer  he  came  to  pay 
me  his  long-promised  visit.  In  his  easy,  exuberant 
way  it  was  the  Johnnie  of  old,  but  in  other  ways 
there  was  a  great  change.  To  the  ever-confiding  blue 
eyes  had  been  added  a  look  of  seriousness,  and  his 
manner  was  more  alert  and  his  mind  even  more  active 
than  before.  From  the  rambling,  disjointed  story 
he  told  me  it  was  evident  that  through  no  particular 
effort  of  his  own,  good  fortune,  or  at  least  the  prom- 
ise of  it,  had  come  his  way.  It  was  also  apparent  that 
having  once  tasted  the  fruits  of  business  success,  he 
had  given  the  same  terrier-like  interest  to  it  that  he 
had  formerly  devoted  to  amusing  himself.  His  for- 
tunes dated  from  an  all-night  session  with  a  couple 
of  prospectors  in  the  back-room  of  a  hotel  in  Para, 
where  he  was  holding  his  old  position  of  night-clerk. 
The  prospectors,  evidently  charmed  by  Hardwick's 
manner,  and  Johnnie,  entranced  by  the  tales  of  the 
great  wealth  that  lay  hidden  in  the  Brazilian  hills, 
decided  to  pool  their  interests,  and  the  next  morning 
Hardwick  gave  up  his  certain  wage  as  a  hotel  clerk 
for  the  very  uncertain  fortunes  of  the  gold-digger. 
That  he  and  his  partners  had  eventually  discovered 
and  taken  over  mines  of  great  value  Johnnie  believed 

181 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

implicitly,  but,  like  most  prospectors,  they  had 
lacked  the  means  to  operate  them  and  their  earnings 
had  so  far  been  only  in  proportion  to  their  capital. 
But  that  there  had  been  earnings  there  could  be  no 
doubt,  for  Johnnie  had  plenty  of  money  on  which  to 
live  in  great  splendor  at  the  Waldorf,  and  he  wore 
jeweled  rings  of  real  value  on  nearly  every  finger 
of  both  hands.  Of  the  three  partners,  he  told  me 
that  he  had  been  judged  the  one  with  the  glibbest 
tongue  and  the  most  convincing  manner,  and,  there- 
fore, had  been  chosen  to  come  to  New  York  to  raise 
the  money  necessary  to  open  up  the  hidden  treasures 
of  the  Brazilian  mines. 

"But  to  whom  are  you  going  to  look  for  your 
capital?"  I  asked  a  little  incredulously. 

"To  my  friends,"  Johnnie  laughed.  "You  didn't 
know  I  had  friends,  did  you?  But  I  have — the  same 
friends  who  let  me  starve.  Rich  gamblers,  and  sport- 
ing men,  and  crooked  brokers  who  wouldn't  give  me 
the  price  of  a  sandwich  when  I  was  on  my  uppers, 
but  who  would  back  me  for  millions  if  I  could  show 
them  a  gambler's  chance  to  make  a  thousand  per 
cent.  And  that's  just  what  I  can  show  them — a 
gambler's  chance.  Long  shots,  perhaps,  but  I've 
got  stable-tips  in  the  way  of  ore  samples  that'll 

182 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

make  'em  come  across  with  the  coin.  But,  between 
you  and  me,  they're  not  long-shots — they're  sure 
things  with  a  short  price  against  every  one  of 
them." 

"Then  if  they  are  such  sure  things,"  I  asked, 
"why  not  let  me  in  on  them?" 

But  Johnnie  only  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 
"No,  not  you,"  he  said.  "You're  too  respectable 
for  this  game.  We  may  have  the  cards,  but  the 
dealers  are  all  crooked,  every  one  of  us,  and  we're 
going  to  get  the  big  end  every  time.  It's  a  'public 
be  damned'  game  if  there  ever  was  one.  Besides,  if 
I  strike  it  rich,  and  it's  dollars  to  pennies  that  in 
six  months  I'll  have  my  millions  and  be  back  here 
with  bells  on,  then  I'll  give  you  all  you  can  use. 
When  I  was  down  and  out  you  treated  me  white, 
and  Johnnie  Hardwick,  the  night-clerk,  never  for- 
gets." 

With  this  conciliatory  but  somewhat  theatrical 
speech  (for  Johnnie  loved  melodrama)  he  left  me, 
and  I  did  not  see  him  again  for  several  weeks.  Then 
it  was  only  for  a  brief  call  to  say  good-bye  and  to 
tell  me  that  he  had  raised  the  money  and  was  leav- 
ing the  next  day  on  his  way  to  Rio. 

Another  six  months  of  silence,  and,  then,  when 
183 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

winter  had  set  in  and  the  town  had  reached  the 
season  of  its  greatest  gaiety,  Johnnie  came  marching 
home,  and,  in  his  own  words,  he  came  back  with  bells 
on.  Whether  the  confiding  public  had  been  fleeced 
of  its  money  by  three  wise  and  perhaps  rather  un- 
scrupulous young  men,  or  whether  the  mines  were 
of  the  great  value  the  young  men  had  contended  they 
were,  I  do  not  know.  But  that  Johnnie  had  made 
good  his  threat  to  come  into  his  millions  I  have  no 
doubt  whatever,  because  he  offered  to  loan  or  to 
give  me  several  of  them. 

If  Johnnie  had  grown  older  by  a  couple  of  years 
since  I  had  first  met  him,  he  was  just  as  young  in 
his  enthusiasm  for  life,  and  he  was  still  the  genial 
night-clerk,  but  now  the  night-clerk  off  for  a  holi- 
day with  a  few  coins  to  jangle  in  his  pocket.  His 
clothes  were  as  conspicuous  as  were  his  rings  and  his 
countless  stick  pins.  He  wore  a  sealskin  coat  to  all 
the  musical  comedies  and  dropped  it  ostentatiously 
on  the  floor  as  if  it  had  been  a  linen  duster.  The 
head- waiters  of  the  smarter  restaurants  soon  came 
to  recognize  him  as  one  of  their  best-known  and  best- 
paying  patrons.  He  gave  supper  parties  in  private 
rooms  to  beautiful  show  girls,  and  the  suppers  were 
the  envy  of  all  Broadway,  especially  that  part  of  it 

184 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

that  was  not  invited.  He  established  himself  in  the 
finest  of  bachelor  apartments  and  hung  the  silk- 
brocaded  walls  with  fearful  and  expensive  oil-paint- 
ings. Heavy  velvet  curtains  and  portieres  were 
draped  about  in  most  luxurious  profusion,  and  the 
rooms  were  filled  with  the  most  awful  collection  of 
junk  ever  unloaded  by  unscrupulous  art  dealers  on 
a  well-meaning  but  ignorant  patron.  If  New  York 
offered  any  amusement  that  money  could  buy  and  of 
which  Johnnie  did  not  avail  himself  to  the  fullest 
extent,  then  I  know  nothing  of  the  pleasures  of  the 
town. 

Every  few  weeks  he  would  drop  in  at  my  rooms 
and,  in  a  somewhat  guarded  way,  tell  me  of  his  joy- 
ous life  and  of  his  happiness  at  the  fulfilment  of  his 
every  whim  in  a  town  where  he  had  once  been  so  poor 
and  downtrodden.  It  was  several  months  after  his 
triumphant  return,  and,  on  this  particular  occasion, 
the  talk  had  taken  a  somewhat  serious  turn.  I  don't 
really  know  how  it  happened,  unless  it  was  that 
spring  was  in  the  air,  and  it  had  been  a  rather 
strenuous  winter,  and  one's  mind  naturally  turned 
to  the  woods  and  running  waters  and  green  fields. 

"But,  Johnnie,"  I  protested,  after  he  had  told  me 
of  some  particularly  wild  party  that  he  had  given 

185 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

the  night  before,  "you  can't  go  on  like  this  forever. 
You'll  break  up.  Why  don't  you  mix  things  a  bit 
and  get  out  of  town  for  awhile  and  try  some  sort  of 
regular  exercise.  Buy  a  place  in  the  country  near 
here  and  live  a  little  more  sensibly.  You'll  want 
to  settle  down  some  of  these  days  and  then  it  will 
be  fine  to  have  a  home  all  ready  for  you." 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated  and  then  looked  up  at 
me  a  little  shyly,  and  as  if  he  were  somewhat  ashamed 
of  what  he  had  done. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  he  said.  "I  understand. 
It  was  just  that  I  wanted  to  have  my  fling  first.  I'd 
been  waiting  for  a  regular  fling  and  wishing  for  it 
all  of  my  life,  and  when  the  chance  came  I  grabbed 
it  and — well,  in  a  way,  I  liked  it,  too.  But,  good 
Lord,  I  know  what  you  mean.  I've  bought  a  piece 
of  ground  already,  just  off  Riverside  Drive,  and  I'm 
going  to  build  the  prettiest  house  you  ever  saw.  I 
wanted  to  have  it  a  sort  of  castle  effect,  but  when 
the  architect  fellow  had  looked  over  the  ground  and 
had  sized  me  up,  he  said  I  didn't  want  no  castle 
but  a  pure  marble  building  with  no  trimmings  at  all. 
He  said  that  when  it  was  all  finished  and  people 
would  compare  it  to  the  Dutch  castles  and  Italian 
palaces  in  the  neighborhood  my  place  would  look 

186 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

like  a  snowflake  on  a  dumping  ground.  That's  just 
what  he  said,  and  they  tell  me  he's  a  great  swell  at 
his  trade.  I've  got  the  plans  now  and  we'll  break 
ground  pretty  soon." 

He  stopped  talking  and  glanced  at  me  for  my 
approval,  and,  seeing  that  he  had  it,  went  on  again. 
"And  when  I  get  the  marble  shack  all  up  and  fixed 
inside  and  running  just  about  right,  then  I'm  going 
after  the  place  in  the  country  you're  talking  about. 
But  I  can  tell  you  it  won't  be  around  here,  nor  a 
bit  like  it.  I  know  the  place  and  it's  a  long,  long 
jump  from  this  gay  old  town,  a  long  jump.  Just 
because  I've  been  sort  of  hitting  it  up  along  Broad- 
way since  I  got  back,  you  mustn't  think  that  the 
white  lights  have  blinded  me.  I  had  the  home  in  the 
country  and  all  that  doped  out  long  ago,  and  it's 
all  coming  in  its  own  good  time." 

I  think  "its  own  good  time"  must  have  come 
sooner  than  Johnnie  expected,  because  a  week  later 
he  called  on  me,  but  as  I  was  out  he  scribbled  the  fol- 
lowing words  on  his  card:  "Have  been  thinking  over 
what  you  said  and  am  going  to  Virginia  to-night. 
If  I  have  good  news  I'll  wire — Johnnie." 

For  the  next  few  days  I  waited  for  a  message 
from  Jackson's  Farm,  but  it  did  not  come,  and  al- 

187 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

most  a  month  had  passed  before  I  again  got  news 
from  Johnnie.  It  arrived  in  the  form  of  a  brief 
note  asking  me  to  come  to  see  him  at  his  rooms  late 
the  following  afternoon  as  he  had  something  of  im- 
portance to  show  me. 

I  found  him  standing  in  front  of  the  fireplace  in 
his  sitting-room  surrounded  by  all  the  gorgeousness 
that  money  and  a  lack  of  good  taste  could  devise. 
A  big  golden  lamp  in  one  corner  gave  out  a  little 
light  and  the  last  faint  rays  of  the  setting  sun  filtered 
through  the  open  windows,  but  the  room  was  quite 
dark  and,  where  Johnnie  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the 
fireless  fireplace,  I  could  not  at  first  tell  from  his 
face  whether  the  news  he  had  brought  back  from 
Virginia  was  good  news  or  bad  news. 

"Hello,"  I  cried,  trying  to  be  as  cheerful  as  I 
could,  "when  did  you  get  back  to  town?" 

He  left  the  fireplace  and,  crossing  the  room, 
gripped  the  hand  I  held  out  to  him  in  both  of  his 
own.  From  the  tightness  of  the  grip  and  a  certain 
subdued  expression  in  the  blue  eyes  I  knew  that  the 
news  was  bad  news. 

"I  got  back  to  town,"  he  said,  with  a  feeble  effort 
to  smile,  two  days  after  I  left  it.  Did  you  ever  know 
a  young  man  down  there  named  Hugh  Billings  ?" 

188 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

For  answer  I  shook  my  head. 

"Well,"  Johnnie  went  on,  "he  has  a  farm  a  little 
way  up  the  valley  from  Mrs.  Warren's.  He  and 
Margaret  got  married  about  a  month  ago.  I  found 
them  all  settled  down  at  Jackson's  Farm.  Mrs. 
Warren's  getting  pretty  old,  so  he's  to  run  the  place 
for  her." 

For  lack  of  something  more  adequate,  I  said :  "I'm 
sorry,  Johnnie.  I'm  sorry  that  Margaret  didn't 
wait." 

"I  never  asked  her  to  wait,"  he  said  very  simply. 
"I  took  a  gambler's  chance.  Perhaps  if  I  hadn't 
wasted  my  time  fooling  around  here  with  these  skirts 
for  the  last  few  months  it  might  have  been  different. 
But  I  don't  know  that." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and,  walking  to  the 
window,  clasped  his  hands  behind  his  back  and  stood 
looking  out  on  the  pink  glow  of  the  dying  day.  For 
some  moments  he  remained  there,  and  then  I  went 
over  to  where  he  stood  and  laid  my  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

"Why  didn't  you  let  me  know  before?"  I  asked. 
"You've  been  here  nearly  a  month." 

He  turned  back  to  the  room  and,  as  if  to  bring 
189 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

himself  back  to  the  consciousness  of  his  surround- 
ings, slightly  shook  his  shoulders. 

"I  had  some  plans  I  wanted  to  show  you,"  he  said, 
and  nodded  his  head  toward  the  centre-table  which 
was  littered  with  many  blue-prints.  "But  I  didn't 
want  you  to  know  anything  about  it  until  I  had 
things  settled.  Sit  down,  won't  you?" 

I  sat  down  in  a  big  armchair  near  the  hearth  and 
Johnnie  returned  to  his  former  stand  before  the  fire- 
place. 

"I  don't  speak  the  English  language  very  well," 
he  began,  "but  there  are  two  words  in  it  that  I  always 
had  a  great  hankering  for.  One  was  home  and  the 
other  was  motherhood." 

"Both  fine  words,"  I  interrupted. 

"I  suppose  the  reason  I  liked  them,"  Johnnie 
went  on,  "was  because  I  never  had  a  home  and  the 
kind  of  women  I  have  known  looked  at  motherhood 
with  about  as  much  pleasure  as  they  would  at  a  case 
of  smallpox.  I  got  to  thinking  on  the  train  on  my 
way  back  from  Virginia  and  I  figured  it  out  about 
like  this.  I  says  what  possible  use  is  that  marble 
palace  uptown  going  to  be  to  me — that  is,  as  things 
have  turned  out.  I've  got  these  rooms  and,  if  I  do 

190 


say  it,  they're  good  enough  for  any  bachelor,  aren't 
they?" 

I  promptly  admitted  that  they  were. 

"They're  roomy,"  Johnnie  went  on,  "and  they're 
cozy,  and  all  the  girls  and  boys  are  crazy  about  them. 
So  I  says,  go  ahead  with  the  palace  uptown,  but 
instead  of  fixing  it  up  inside  as  a  home  for  me  and— 
well,  I'll  switch  it  to  a  home  for  women  that  are 
going  to  bring  children  into  the  world." 

"A  maternity  hospital,"  I  suggested. 

Johnnie  nodded.  "Yes,  that's  what  the  doctors 
who  are  getting  it  up  for  me  wanted  to  call  it,  but 
I  says  'No,  it's  going  to  be  called  Saint  Margaret's 
Home.5  They  wanted  to  call  it  Saint  Margaret's 
Hospital-or  just  Saint  Margaret's,  but  I  says  Saint 
Margaret's  Home,  or  nothing.  It's  to  be  pretty 
small,  but  it's  to  be  the  greatest  thing  of  its  kind 
in  the  world.  It's  going  to  be  a  snowflake  on 
a  dumping  ground  for  fair,  and  it's  going  to  be  for 
poor  mothers  and  poor  mothers  only.  And  when 
the  children  are  born  they'll  have  everything  around 
'em  that  money  can  buy,  and,  as  soon  as  their  eyes 
are  open,  the  first  thing  they'll  get  a  flash  of  will 
be  nice  white  beds  and  pretty  nurses  in  white  caps 
and  aprons.  They  can  look  out  of  the  windows  and 

191 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

see  the  river,  and  the  ships  sailing  by,  and  the  men- 
of-war  that  are  always  lying  at  anchor  up  there, 
and  the  kids  can  hear  them  shooting  off  their  cannon, 
too,  when  the  admirals  salute  the  mayor.  And  if 
that  ain't  a  home  then  I  don't  know  what  is.  I  tell 
you  I  haven't  forgotten  what  the  place  looked  like 
that  I  was  born  in,  and  where  my  mother  died  just 
from  lack  of  fresh  air,  and  sunlight,  and  a  little  care, 
and  something  good  to  eat.  Even  if  the  babies  do 
have  to  leave  the  place  pretty  soon  to  make  room 
for  other  mothers  and  babies,  it'll  help  their  self- 
respect  a  lot ;  they  can  always  go  back  to  that  pretty 
marble  house  and  point  it  out  and  say  that's  the 
home  where  I  was  born,  and  they  needn't  be 
ashamed." 

"And  Margaret,"  I  asked,  "have  you  told  her 
yet?" 

Johnnie  looked  at  me  in  the  old,  shy  way  he  had 
sometimes  when  he  was  telling  me  what  was  really 
in  his  heart,  and  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said,  a  little  reluctantly,  "I  don't  think 
I'll  tell  Margaret." 

"Why,  Johnnie,"  I  protested,  "think  how  it  would 
please  her.  That's  a  wonderful  thing  in  a  girl's  life 
to  have  inspired  an  idea  like  that  and  to  know  that 

192 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

she  is  responsible  for  all  the  good  and  happiness  that 
such  a  home  is  going  to  bring  to  all  those  mothers 
and  little  children." 

But  again  Johnnie  shook  his  head. 

"It's  hard  for  me  to  make  you  understand,"  he 
said,  "because  it's  hard  for  me  to  explain  anything 
I  really  feel.  But  to  me  it  seems  something  like  this. 
I  don't  believe  any  one  woman  ever  cares  for  but  one 
man,  and  it's  the  same  with  a  man  who  really  loves 
a  woman.  Margaret  cared,  and,  the  Lord  knows, 
I  cared,  too,  but  I  never  told  her  then,  and  I  don't 
want  her  ever  to  know  if  I  can  help  it.  It  would 
only  make  us  both  unhappy.  She  can  go  on  with 
her  life  down  there  in  the  old  way,  and  I  can  live  on 
here  as  I  have  been  living.  These  rooms  are  all  I'll 
need," 

He  glanced  about  at  the  velvet  hangings  and  the 
bad  paintings  and  vulgar  ornaments.  "I  think  these 
rooms  are  all  right,  don't  you?" 

"Why,  yes,  Johnnie,"  I  lied,  "I  think  they're  fine." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  he  added,  speaking  very  slowly, 
"that  the  case  of  Margaret  and  me  was  just  like 
two  strangers  meeting  at  a  country  crossroads,  and 
having  a  friendly  chat,  and  then  each  going  their 
own  way  It  was  all  so  simple  and  pleasant,  down 

193 


WHEN  JOHNNIE  CAME  MARCHING  HOME 

there  at  the  farm  and — so  different.  But  that  has 
nothing  to  do  with  my  life  now,  just  as  hers  has 
nothing  to  do  with  New  York.  I  tell  you,  it's  dead. 
It's  a  closed  incident,  as  the  saying  goes."  He 
glanced  down  at  me  and  then  at  the  open  window 
through  which  there  came  the  confused  echoes  of  the 
roar  and  rumble  of  a  great  city. 

"But  it  is  sort  of  pleasant  in  a  way,"  he  went  on, 
"to  know  that  that  chance  meeting  down  there  in 
that  clean,  decent  country,  with  the  fields  and  the 
mountains  all  around  us,  was  the  reason  for  that 
little  white  home  uptown  rising  out  of  the  muck  and 
filth  of  this  big,  rotten  city." 


194 


"THE   PROFESSOR" 

1  HE  party  began  at  Fabacher's  restaurant  and 
was  given  by  Stacy  Paget  to  the  exceedingly  beauti- 
ful and  more  or  less  talented  Ivy  Hettler.  During 
the  earlier  part  of  that  same  evening  Miss  Hettler 
had  graduated  from  the  chorus  to  the  soubrette  part 
in  "The  Maid  of  Mirth,"  and  she  had  taken  this 
important  step  with  a  degree  of  success  that,  to  the 
outsider  at  least,  seemed  to  justify  a  modest  cele- 
bration. However,  there  were  several  other  girls  of 
the  company,  who  happened  to  be  supping  that  night 
at  Fabacher's,  to  whom  Ivy  Hettler's  promotion  was 
regarded  not  only  as  undeserved  but  in  the  light  of 
an  ordinary  scandal.  Furthermore,  they  did  not 
hesitate  to  show  their  feelings  by  casting  significant 
glances  in  the  direction  of  Stacy  Paget  and  the  nu- 
merous bottles  of  champagne  that  he  was  opening  in 
honor  of  his  new  soubrette. 

Irene  Earle,  who  was  one  of  a  large  party  sitting 
195 


"THE    PROFESSOR" 

but  a  few  tables  distant,  shut  the  metal  lid  of  her 
beer  mug  with  a  vicious  snap  and  shoved  it  halfway 
across  the  polished  table. 

"Just  look  at  the  way  Ivy's  sipping  her  wine," 
she  sneered.  "You'd  think  she  was  afraid  the  bubbles 
were  going  to  bite  her.  There's  a  fine  soubrette  for 
you — I  don't  think.  I  know  about  eight  of  our  girls 
who  can  sing  and  dance  and  read  lines  all  around 
that  kid.  Of  all " 

"What  gets  my  goat,"  Marie  Le  Moyne  inter- 
rupted, "is  that  Ivy  should  have  played  the  wide-eyed 
innocent  child  half  the  season  and  then  copped  out 
the  manager.  If  it  had  been  a  chorus  man  or  even 
the  tenor,  I  wouldn't  have  cared." 

Edna  Clark  rapped  her  beer  mug  on  the  table  to 
attract  the  attention  of  a  passing  waiter,  and  glanced 
over  her  shoulder  in  the  direction  of  the  manager's 
supper  party. 

"It's  a  rotten  shame,  if  you  ask  me,"  she  said, 
turning  back  her  large  bovine  eyes  to  the  men  and 
women  at  her  own  table,  "a  rotten  shame.  Some  of 
these  days  Stacy  Paget'll  make  a  play  for  a  girl 
who's  got  a  brother  or  a  sweetheart  with  red  blood 
in  him,  and  then  there'll  be  one  more  good  girl  in  the 
show  business  and  one  less  manager." 

196 


"THE    PROFESSOR" 

The  other  women  about  the  table,  each  according 
to  her  own  moral  viewpoint,  shrugged  their  shoulders 
or  nodded  their  approval,  and  then  every  one  ordered 
more  beer  from  the  patient  waiter. 

In  the  natural  course  of  events,  and  according  to 
the  most  firmly  established  traditions  of  New  Orleans 
sporting  life,  Irene  Earle,  Marie  Le  Moyne,  Edna 
Clark,  and  the  other  girls  from  "The  Maid  of  Mirth," 
as  well  as  the  young  men  who  were  acting  as  their 
hosts,  eventually  left  Fabacher's  in  pursuit  of  the 
real  entertainment  of  the  night.  Half  a  dozen  taxi- 
cabs  jolted  them  over  the  rough  stone  pavements  and 
through  the  narrow,  dimly  lighted  streets  to  the  side 
door  of  the  Oriental  Cafe,  where  the  already  hilari- 
ous party  of  pleasure  seekers  was  received  with 
clamorous  delight. 

The  back  room  of  the  Oriental  was  a  little  larger 
and  a  trifle  cleaner  than  the  other  and  less  success- 
ful resorts  of  its  kind  in  the  neighborhood.  The 
floor  was  bare,  the  maroon  tinted  walls  were  decor- 
ated with  a  few  fly-specked  prints  of  former  gladia- 
tors of  the  roped  arena  or  past  equine  heroes  of  the 
turf,  and  the  centre  of  the  low,  smoke-begrimed  ceil- 
ing was  enlivened  by  a  large  and  exceedingly  crude 
painting  of  scarlet  roses  and  amorous  pink  cupids. 

197 


"THE    PROFESSOR" 

At  the  far  end  of  the  long,  narrow  room  there  was 
a  small  raised  platform  which  served  as  a  stage.  On 
this  there  was  an  upright  piano  and  a  table,  on  which 
were  placed  a  drum,  a  trombone,  and  several  other 
sadly  dilapidated  instruments  used  by  the  performers 
when  rendering  "Alexander's  Ragtime  Band"  and 
other  ballads  of  a  similarly  hilarious  nature. 

The  three  professional  artists  who  were  regularly 
employed  by  the  management  of  the  cafe  were  Ed- 
die Windle,  commonly  known  as  "The  Professor," 
who  played  the  accompaniments  for  the  two  other 
young  men  as  well  as  for  any  artist  in  the  audience 
who  wished  to  contribute  a  song  to  the  general  gayety 
of  the  night.  The  two  young  men  who  sang  pro- 
fessionally and  who  held  the  exclusive  privilege  of 
periodically  passing  the  hat  among  their  delighted 
auditors  were  the  Allen  Brothers,  specimens  of  a 
wholly  depraved  type  usually  to  be  found  about  the 
sporting  resorts  of  any  large  city.  Both  young  men 
were  always  neatly  dressed,  brisk  of  manner,  spoke 
a  jargon  of  slang  all  of  their  own,  and  were  wonder- 
fully wise  in  knowing  how  to  extract  from  the  un- 
worldly the  greatest  amount  of  money  possible  with 
the  least  personal  effort.  The  difference  between 
these  two  noisy,  fatuous  youths  and  the  Professor 

198 


"THE    PROFESSOR" 

is  not  easy  to  define,  and  yet  there  was  a  subtle  dif- 
ference which  never  failed  to  impress  itself  on  any 
one  who  spent  a  night  at  the  Oriental  Cafe. 

The  Professor  was  quite  as  youthful  as  his  fellow 
workers,  and,  from  all  appearances,  just  as  knowing 
in  the  ways  of  the  underworld  in  which  he  lived.  But 
whether  it  was  that  he  lacked  the  convivial  spirits 
of  the  other  two  or  was  palpably  short  of  physical 
charm,  there  can  be  no  question  that  he  was  seldom 
asked  to  drink  with  a  party  in  the  audience,  and 
was  under  no  condition  permitted  by  his  brother 
artists  to  pass  around  the  hat.  He  was  a  tall,  spare 
young  man,  with  slightly  stooping  shoulders,  big 
gray  eyes,  and  an  unhappy,  discontented  look  in 
them,  which  could  be  seen  when  he  occasionally  turned 
them  toward  the  audience.  Perhaps  it  was  this  or 
perhaps  it  was  his  blond  hair  parted  neatly  in  the 
centre,  and  his  pink  and  white  coloring,  and  the  weak, 
sensitive  mouth  from  which  there  always  hung  a 
half-lighted  cigarette,  or  perhaps  again  it  was  his 
shy  and  taciturn  manner,  but  certainly  one  or  all  of 
these  things  combined  to  set  him  apart  and  cause 
the  visitors  to  the  Oriental  to  regard  him  as  curiously 
out  of  place  in  his  present  surroundings. 

But  if  the  Professor's  personality  did  not  seem  to 
199 


"THE    PROFESSOR" 

belong  to  the  place,  he  nevertheless  occupied  a  most 
important  part  in  its  nightly  programme.  Not  only 
did  he  play  the  accompaniments  for  the  other  artists, 
but  at  somewhat  lengthy  intervals  throughout  the 
night  he  contributed  a  song  of  an  entirely  differ- 
ent character  from  the  noisy  efforts  of  the  Allen 
Brothers.  These  songs  of  the  Professor  were  in- 
variably sentimental,  often  pathetic,  and  their  sub- 
jects were  the  deserted  home,  the  dying  soldier-hero, 
the  wayward  daughter,  and  particularly  the  aged 
mother.  With  what  had  been  once  an  apparently 
good,  if  untrained,  tenor  voice,  Eddie  Windle,  sitting 
at  the  piano,  gazing  up  at  the  grimy  ceiling,  sang 
these  doleful  ditties,  and  it  must  be  said  to  his  credit 
that  they  were  invariably  received  by  the  patrons 
of  the  Oriental  with  the  most  marked  signs  of  ap- 
proval. It  may  have  been  the  highly  moral  sentiment 
of  the  songs,  or  it  may  have  been  the  feeling  with 
which  he  rendered  their  homely  words,  but  certain 
it  is  that  when  the  Professor  sang  "Her  Hobo  Son," 
or  "The  Girl  I  Loved,"  or  "Dream  Days,"  or  "Little 
Girlie  Mine,"  the  audience  was  not  only  always  re- 
spectfully silent,  but  during  the  very  early  hours  of 
the  morning  frequently  reduced  to  a  state  of  maud- 
lin tearfulness. 

200 


"THE    PROFESSOR" 

Very  much  in  the  spirit  of  a  sight-seeing  or  slum- 
ming party,  Stacy  Paget  and  his  friends  eventually 
arrived  at  the  Oriental  Cafe  and  were  shown  to  a 
table  not  far  from  the  little  stage.  The  Allen  Broth- 
ers were,  for  the  third  time  that  evening,  rendering 
"The  Raggiest  Rag,"  and  while  Eddie  Windle  re- 
mained at  the  piano  the  two  brothers,  accompanied 
by  Irene  Earle,  Marie  Le  Moyne,  and  several  other 
girls  from  "The  Maid  of  Mirth"  company  were 
marching  in  single  file  between  the  tables,  beating 
drums,  blowing  horns,  or  singing  loudly  as  they 
continued  on  their  joyous  parade  up  and  down  the 
room.  Eddie  Windle  was,  as  usual,  gazing  absently 
at  a  spot  on  the  ceiling,  just  over  the  piano,  and 
therefore  failed  to  notice  the  arrival  of  the  new- 
comers. But  when  Ivy  Hettler  first  saw  the  Pro- 
fessor she  turned  quite  white,  and  her  soft,  pretty 
hands  suddenly  gathered  tightly  about  the  thick 
stem  of  the  as  yet  empty  wineglass  that  stood  before 
her.  When  the  song  was  over,  Windle  swung  slowly 
about  on  the  piano  stool  and,  with  his  usually  taci- 
turn and  disinterested  manner,  gazed  at  the  noisy 
crowd  beating  beer  mugs  on  the  tables  and  shouting 
uproariously  for  an  encore.  And  then  his  glance 
shifted  and  his  eyes  met  those  of  Ivy  Hettler.  If 

201 


"THE    PROFESSOR" 

he  recognized  the  girl  no  one  would  have  known  it, 
for  his  face  remained  the  same  meaningless  pink  and 
white  mask.  Once  more  he  swung  about  on  the  piano 
stool,  and,  picking  up  his  cigarette,  lighted  it  and 
blew  a  series  of  gray  wavering  rings  of  smoke  at  the 
ceiling. 

"Sing  'The  Village  Green,'  Professor,"  some  one 
shouted,  and  another  voice  farther  back  in  the  hall 
called:  "No,  Eddie,  make  it  'Dream  Days.'" 

By  way  of  reply,  the  Professor  played  a  few  stray 
chords  and  then  slowly  turned  his  big  gray  eyes, 
and  for  a  moment  allowed  them  to  rest  on  Ivy  Hettler 
and  Stacy  Paget.  The  manager  had  indulged  in  the 
almost  unknown  luxury  at  the  Oriental  of  ordering 
champagne,  and  the  habitues  did  not  wonder  that  the 
incident  should  have  attracted  the  momentary  atten- 
tion of  the  piano  player.  The  song  which  Eddie 
Windle  played  on  this  occasion  was  quite  new  to 
the  Oriental's  audience  and  a  new  song  by  the  Pro- 
fessor was  always  an  event  of  no  mean  importance. 
It  was  a  very  simple  song,  largely  recitative;  the 
lyrics  were  ungrammatical  and  the  meter  was  dis- 
tinctly faulty.  The  whole  thing  was  commonplace, 
even  banal.  The  title  of  the  ballad  was  "She's  Any- 
one's Little  Girlie  Now  but  Mine,"  and  it  was  all 

202 


"THE    PROFESSOR" 

about  a  boy  and  a  girl  who  had  grown  up  together 
in  a  little  country  town  and  had  gone  to  school  to- 
gether and  played  together  and  fought  their  childish 
battles  for  each  other.  Then  the  boy  went  away  to 
seek  his  fortune  in  the  city,  but  she  always  remained 
his  little  girl.  That  is,  she  did  until  one  night  when 
he  chanced  to  meet  her  under  most  unhappy  condi- 
tions. Because  it  seems  that  she,  too,  having  grown 
tired  of  the  little  town  and  of  waiting  for  her  sweet- 
heart, had  come  to  the  big  city.  And  then,  after  the 
meeting,  according  to  the  refrain  of  this  homely  tale, 
she  was  any  one's  little  girl  but  his. 

A  complete  and  most  flattering  silence  greeted  the 
conclusion  of  the  ballad.  One  of  the  girls  from  the 
district  sniffed  audibly,  and  Irene  Earle  fearlessly 
dabbed  her  moist  eyes  several  times  with  a  small  lace 
handkerchief.  Stacy  Paget  leaned  his  heavy  body 
forward,  and  with  his  fat  chin  sunk  between  his  palms 
and  his  elbows  resting  upon  the  table,  gazed  steadily 
at  the  Professor,  who  was  again  sitting  idly  at  the 
piano  and  once  more  blowing  cigarette  rings  at  the 
dirty  ceiling. 

"Well,  he  got  to  me,"  the  manager  muttered. 
"That  may  be  cheap  stuff,  but  it  got  under  my  vest 
all  right." 

203 


"THE    PROFESSOR" 

With  an  ever  ready  eye  to  the  main  chance,  the 
Allen  Brothers  were  quick  to  take  advantage  of 
Windle's  success  and  hurriedly  began  to  pass  around 
their  hats  among  the  audience.  After  the  collection 
had  been  made,  the  brothers  were  joined  by  the  Pro- 
fessor and  they  adjourned  to  the  barroom  to  count 
their  earnings.  When  the  contributions  had  been 
dumped  on  the  table,  the  first  thing  that  caught  the 
eyes  of  all  the  three  men  among  the  mass  of  dollar 
bills  and  silver  was  a  small  envelope. 

Bud  Allen,  the  elder  of  the  brothers,  picked  it  up 
and,  having  deftly  felt  the  enclosure  with  his  finger 
tips,  whistled  softly. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  he  gasped.  "I 
saw  the  skirt  that  put  that  in  and  I  thought  it  was 
a  joke,  but  it  ain't  no  joke — it's  her  pay  envelope." 
Raising  the  envelope  to  the  light,  he  read  aloud  the 
name  written  across  it:  "Ivy  Hettler."  Then  he 
started  to  tear  it  open,  but  Eddie  Windle  suddenly 
shot  out  his  hand. 

"Don't  you  open  that,  Bud,"  he  whispered  fiercely. 
"Don't  you  dare!" 

Allen's  hand  closed  tight  about  the  prize. 

"Don't  open  it!"  he  repeated.  "Why,  she's  one 
of  those  girls  from  the  show  at  the  Dauphine.  There 

204 


"THE    PROFESSOR" 

must  be  twenty-five  in  it  anyway.  I  guess  you're 
crazy,  ain't  you,  Eddie?" 

Windle  leaned  far  across  the  table,  and  in  the  Pro- 
fessor's eyes  Bud  Allen  saw  a  light  that  he  had  never 
remembered  to  have  seen  there  before. 

"No,"  Windle  said,  speaking  very  quietly,  "I'm 
not  crazy.  You  take  that  envelope  back  and  give 
it  to  the  girl  that  put  it  in  the  hat,  and  do  it  now! 
Do  you  get  me?" 

With  a  reluctant  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  Bud  Allen 
got  up  from  the  table.  "All  right,"  he  grumbled; 
"I  guess  it  was  that  last  song  of  yours  that  drew 
it  anyhow."  He  interrupted  himself  with  a  chuckle 
and  an  appreciative  wag  of  his  head,  and  added: 
"And  let  me  tell  you,  Eddie  boy,  that  was  some 
song." 

The  pale  lips  of  the  Professor  broke  into  the  sem- 
blance of  a  smile.  "Thank  you,  Bud.  And,  I  say, 
give  me  that  envelope  for  a  moment,  will  you?" 

Allen  handed  it  to  him,  and  with  a  pencil  Windle 
scribbled  a  few  words  just  under  the  girl's  name. 

"When  you  give  her  this,"  he  said,  "let  her  see 
there's  some  writing  on  it,  but  don't  let  the  others 
get  wise." 

It  was  during  this  absence  of  the  three  young  men 
205 


"THE    PROFESSOR" 

from  the  concert  room  that  Stacy  Paget  conceived 
a  thought  which  immediately  impressed  him  as  a 
most  masterly  and  in  all  probability  a  valuable  one. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  he  said,  suddenly  turning  to 
Ivy  and  speaking  in  a  low  voice  so  that  the  rest  of 
his  party  could  not  hear,  "I've  got  a  great  idea. 
That  last  scene  in  our  show  is  no  good  and  never 
was.  Why  not  make  it  an  interior  instead  of  the 
outside  of  the  cafe  and  give  a  reproduction  of  a 
show  like  this.  I  could  get  this  boy  to  play  the 
piano  and  sing,  and  some  of  our  girls  could  do  their 
stunts  and  supply  the  local  color.  They  certainly 
seem  to  act  as  if  they  knew  all  about  it." 

Paget's  brain  was  still  busy  with  this  new  idea, 
when  a  few  minutes  later  Ivy  Hettler  excused  herself 
on  the  plea  that  she  wished  to  speak  to  some  of  the 
girls  in  the  back  of  the  hall.  In  the  confusion  that 
reigned  throughout  the  crowded  room,  it  was  not 
difficult  for  her  to  slip  unnoticed  through  the  side 
door  to  the  street. 

When  she  saw  the  tall,  lank  figure  of  Eddie 
Windle,  she  gave  a  little  cry  of  happiness  and  ran 
toward  him  with  her  hands  held  out  before  her,  but 
the  pleasure  of  the  meeting  seemed  to  be  all  with 
the  girl. 

206 


"THE    PROFESSOR" 

"Not  yet,  Ivy,"  he  said,  keeping  his  hands  stuck 
deep  in  his  coat  pockets.  "Not  just  yet.  I've  got 
to  have  a  few  words  with  you  first.  There's  some- 
thing I  want  to  ask  you." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  with  wide  open  eyes  of 
wonder  and  disappointment.  "Why,  Eddie,"  she 
gasped,  "I  don't  understand  you  at  all.  Why  didn't 
you  recognize  me  in  there,  and  what  did  you  mean  by 
that  song,  anyhow?  My,  Eddie,"  and  her  eyes  were 
smiling  again  with  real  enthusiasm,  "but  you  did 
get  it  over,  though.  It  was  great  and  Paget  wants 
to  engage  you  to  go  with  our  show  and  sing  it  in  a 
cabaret  scene.  Wouldn't  that  be  fine?" 

By  way  of  answer,  Windle  took  Ivy  by  the  arm 
and  started  to  lead  her  across  the  street. 

"Let's  go  to  Siebert's  place,"  he  said.  "We  can 
talk  better  there.  It's  a  dance  hall.  Do  you  know 
it?" 

Ivy  shook  her  head.  "Is  it  respectable?"  she 
asked. 

"Respectable  enough,  and  besides,  it's  just  around 
the  corner." 

Ivy  made  a  feeble  effort  to  hold  back,  but  Windle 
hurried  her  across  the  street. 

207 


"THE    PROFESSOR" 

"Won't  they  need  you  at  the  piano  back  there?" 
she  asked. 

"No,  not  for  a  while.  The  boys  have  some  songs 
they  can  do  without  me." 

In  a  few  minutes  more  they  were  at  Siebert's, 
seated  at  a  little  table,  shut  off  from  the  big  dancing 
room  by  a  lattice  screen.  Near  them  a  woman  was 
making  love  to  a  tipsy  sailor,  but  otherwise  they 
were  quite  alone.  Beyond  the  screen  a  colored  brass 
band  was  blaring  out  a  waltz,  and  a  hundred  women 
from  the  district  and  as  many  of  their  men  friends 
were  moving  slowly  up  and  down  the  long  smoke- 
befogged  room  in  an  exaggerated  form  of  the 
Grizzly  Bear. 

"Well,"  Ivy  asked,  "why  did  you  bring  me  here? 
You  must  have  had  a  good  reason,  Eddie — a  mighty 
good  reason." 

The  Professor  folded  his  arms  before  him  on  the 
table  and  looked  the  girl  evenly  in  the  eyes. 

"Yes,  Ivy,"  he  said,  speaking  very  slowly  and  very 
gently.  "I  think  I  have  a  good  reason.  I  was  talk- 
ing to  some  of  your  girls  last  night  at  the  Oriental, 
and  they  were  telling  me  about  you  being  promoted, 
and  that  you  rehearsed  pretty  badly  in  the  part, 
and  that  you  got  your  rise  through  Paget,  and  that 

208 


"THE    PROFESSOR" 

you  didn't  deserve  it  anyhow.  It  wasn't  very  nice 
talk,  but,  you  see,  they  didn't  know  I  knew  you  or 
that  we'd  grown  up  in  the  same  town.  You  see,  I 
say,  they  didn't  know  all  about  that,  and  so  they 
talked  pretty  free." 

Ivy  gave  a  little  toss  to  her  chin,  and,  with  angry, 
unseeing  eyes,  she  stared  at  the  bare  wall  across  the 
room. 

"So  I'm  any  one's  little  girlie  now  but  yours.  Is 
that  it?" 

The  Professor  nodded.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "I  guess 
that's  about  it.  Leastwise,  it  was  what  those  girls 
said  or  as  much  as  said.  That's  why  I  wanted  to 
see  you  to-night.  Ivy,  you  never  lied  to  me  in  the 
old  days — never." 

Ivy  turned  back  her  blue  eyes  toward  him,  and 
he  saw  that  all  the  fire  and  the  resentment  had  gone 
out  of  them,  and  in  their  place  there  had  come  a 
look  of  infinite  weariness. 

"That's  right,  Eddie,"  she  said,  and  she  spoke 
quite  calmly  again,  "that's  right.  I  never  lied  to 
you  and  I  never  could.  Not  to  you.  It  wouldn't 
somehow  be  right  after  all  you  did  for  me  at  home 
and  always  so  good  to  me  and  wanting  me  to  marry 

209 


"THE    PROFESSOR" 

you  and  all  that.  No,  Eddie,  I'm  telling  you  the 
truth — the  girls  were  wrong." 

Windle  suddenly  tossed  up  his  head  and  gave  a 
sharp  gasp  of  wonderful  content.  His  face  fairly 
shone  with  happiness  now,  and  quickly  putting  out 
his  hand,  he  took  one  of  the  girl's  in  it  and  held  it 
tightly.  But  for  some  reason  that  he  could  not  for 
the  moment  understand,  Ivy  seemed  to  resent  this 
and  slowly  wrenched  her  hand  free.  She  looked  out 
through  the  lattice  screen  at  the  crowd  of  dancers 
revoking  slowly  about  the  big  hall,  and  then  she 
looked  back  at  Windle's  questioning  eyes  and  drew 
her  thin  pretty  lips  into  a  straight  hard  line. 

When  she  spoke,  her  voice  was  quite  colorless  and 
apparently  without  feeling  of  any  kind. 

"I  said,"  she  began,  "that  the  girls  "were  wrong. 
I'll  try  to  explain " 

The  look  of  happiness  had  suddenly  faded  from 
the  Professor's  face. 

"That's  it,"  he  interrupted  her,  "that's  it.  I 
wish  you  would  explain.  I'm  afraid  I  don't  quite 
understand." 

Ivy's  lips  broke  into  a  little  wavering  smile,  but 
there  was  no  smile  in  her  eyes. 

"It's  not  very  difficult  to  understand.  It  ought 
210 


"THE    PROFESSOR" 

to  be  pretty  easy  for  a  man  like  you  who  has  been 
mixed  up  in  theatrical  business,  who  works  in  a  back- 
room show.  I've  had  a  lot  of  men  in  love  with  me 
and  some  of  them  had  money,  too,  but  Stacy  Paget 
is  the  one  man  I  know  who  is  in  love  with  me  and 
who  happens  to  be  in  the  position  to  give  me  the 
chance  I  want." 

"Why,  Ivy,"  Windle  gasped,  "you  don't  know 
what  you're  saying.  You're  crazy." 

The  girl  shook  her  head,  and  again  her  lips  broke 
into  the  same  mirthless  smile. 

"No,  I'm  not  crazy.  It's  this  way,  Eddie.  I've 
tried  to  get  along  and  be  decent,  as — as  you  would 
have  me.  I've  worked  and  I've  worked  and  I've 
struggled  to  get  out  of  the  chorus,  but  I  just 
couldn't  do  it.  I  saw  girls  getting  ahead  of  me  that 
didn't  have  half  of  my  talent  or  half  of  my  ambition, 
but  they  did  have  a  man  friend  who  cared  enough 
and  was  in  the  position  to  give  them  a  chance. 
What's  the  use! — you  know  this  business.  Stacy 
Paget  is  the  first  man  of  this  kind  that  ever  came 
my  way  and  very  probably  he'll  be  the  last,  and  I 
can't  throw  away  the  only  chance  I  may  ever  get. 
I  can't  do  it." 

211 


"THE    PROFESSOR" 

Ivy  clasped  her  hands  before  her  on  the  table  and 
stared  hard  into  Windle's  frightened  eyes. 

"Can't  you  understand,  Eddie,"  she  begged. 
"Don't  make  it  any  harder  for  me  than  it  is.  Don't 
you  suppose  I've  suffered,  too?  It's  been  no  fun  for 
me,  believe  me.  Do  you  think  I  like  to  have  these 
other  women  in  the  company  point  at  me  and  talk 
about  me  as  they  talked  about  me  to  you  last  night? 
But  I  tell  you,  he  gave  me  my  chance.  He's  going 
to  do  a  world  of  things  for  me  in  the  future,  and 
he's  the  only  one  that  could  or  would." 

The  girl's  manner  suddenly  changed  to  one  of 
great  animation  and  eagerness,  and  she  leaned  far 
across  the  table.  "And  he'll  do  wonders  for  you, 
too,  Eddie.  I  told  you  how  he  wanted  you  to  go 
with  the  show  and  do  your  specialty." 

Windle  nodded  gravely,  and  taking  out  a  package 
of  cigarettes  from  his  coat  pocket  lighted  one  and 
blew  clouds  of  smoke  up  at  the  ceiling,  just  as  he  did 
when  he  was  at  the  piano  at  the  Oriental.  For  a 
few  moments  there  was  silence  and  then  the  boy, 
for  he  was  really  only  a  boy,  pushed  his  chair  from 
the  table  and  stood  looking  down  at  Ivy. 

"You  poor,  lonely  kid,"  he  said,  "I've  got  to  look 
out  for  you  somehow,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  old 

212 


"THE    PROFESSOR" 

times,  but  I  don't  know  how  to  do  it.     That's  the 
trouble,  Ivy  dear,  I  don't  know  just  how  to  do  it." 

The  girl  smiled  and  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"That's  all  right,  Eddie,"  she  laughed,  "you'll 
have  a  talk  with  Paget,  won't  you?  Promise  me 
you  will?" 

"Yes,"  Windle  said,  "I'll  have  a  talk  with  Paget. 
I'll  promise  you  that." 

It  was  some  time  later  that  night  at  the  Oriental, 
or  rather  during  the  early  morning  hours,  when  the 
manager  had  his  first  opportunity  to  speak  to  Windle 
alone.  The  Professor  had  finished  singing  and  was 
sitting  by  himself  at  a  table  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room  when  Paget  joined  him  and,  without  any  waste 
of  time  in  preliminaries,  at  once  told  him  of  his 
scheme  to  introduce  the  back-room  scene  in  his 
musical  comedy. 

"I'd  like  to  talk  business  with  you,"  Windle  said; 
"but  I  can't  do  it  here.  I'm  tied  up  with  these 
people,  and  if  they  thought  I  was  going  to  jump 
them  for  a  better  job  they'd  make  trouble.  They're 
pretty  tough  folks  to  deal  with.  The  boss  is  looking 
at  us  now." 

Paget  nodded.  "All  right,"  he  said,  "I'll  meet 
you  anywhere  you  say,  but  make  it  soon." 

213 


"THE    PROFESSOR" 

For  a  few  moments  the  Professor  remained  silent, 
apparently  thinking  it  over. 

"The  show  ought  to  be  finished  in  half  an  hour," 
he  said  at  last.  "If  you  could  send  your  party 
home,  I  might  meet  you  near  here  at  my  room.  It's 
on  a  nice  quiet  street,  two  blocks  south — just  across 
the  railroad  tracks.  The  street  has  four  rows  of 
trees  on  it,  and  it's  very  broad.  You  can't  miss  it. 
When  you  reach  the  corner  turn  to  your  left.  I'll 
meet  you  at  my  door." 

"Aren't  you  making  a  good  deal  of  mystery  out 
of  a  little  business  talk?"  Paget  asked. 

Windle  leaned  across  the  table. 

"You  don't  understand  the  kind  of  people  I'm 
working  for,"  he  whispered.  "You  can  take  it  or 
leave  it.  I'm  not  so  keen  about  the  job  anyhow." 

Paget  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "I'll  be  there.  I  suppose  it's 
safe  down  here  for  a  man  to  walk  the  streets  alone 
this  time  of  night." 

Windle  smiled.  "Safe,"  he  repeated.  "Why,  the 
district  is  as  safe  at  night  as  Broadway  and  Forty- 
second  Street  is  at  noon.  Have  you  told  the  folks 
at  your  table  about  this?" 

Paget  shook  his  head.     "Only  one  of  them." 


"THE    PROFESSOR" 

"All  right,"  Windle  said.  "Don't  tell  the  others 
till  I  do  my  getaway.  Actors  are  a  gabby  lot." 

The  crowd  at  the  Oriental  gradually  dwindled 
away,  and  when  the  Professor  closed  the  top  of  the 
piano  with  a  conspicuous  bang,  all  that  remained 
of  the  audience  straggled  out  of  the  hot,  smoky 
room  into  the  clear  night  air  and  the  moonlit  streets. 
Paget  put  his  friends  into  a  taxicab  and  then  started 
to  walk  slowly  to  his  meeting-place  with  Windle. 

The  Professor  left  the  Oriental  by  the  barrt)om 
entrance,  and,  once  clear  of  the  place,  started  with 
long  swinging  strides  toward  his  destination.  By  a 
circuitous  route  he  reached  the  corner  of  the  street 
with  the  four  rows  of  trees  some  time  before  Paget, 
but  in  the  distance  he  could  see  the  bulky  form  of 
the  manager  coming  slowly  toward  him.  Then  he 
hurried  along  the  broad  avenue  until  he  had  found 
an  open  vestibule  that  offered  him  ample  protection 
for  his  purpose. 

Save  for  the  footfalls  of  the  approaching  Paget 
it  was  quite  silent  now,  for  the  denizens  of  the  dis- 
trict had  gone  to  their  beds  after  the  long  night  of 
debauch.  It  was  almost  as  light  as  day — every  crack 
in  the  broad,  stone  pavements  and  every  twig  of  the 
spreading  trees  stood  out  in  bold,  black  relief  against 

215 


"THE    PROFESSOR" 

the  pure  white  moonlight.  Paget  glanced  up  at  the 
gray  and  pink  plaster  dwellings,  with  their  closed 
shutters  and  rusted  iron  balconies  and  overhanging 
roofs.  To  the  manager  every  house  looked  gloomy 
and  foreboding;  the  whole  scene  seemed  somehow 
fraught  with  mystery  and  to  portend  disaster,  and 
he  keenly  regretted  that  he  had  ever  come.  But  now 
he  was  almost  at  his  destination,  and  at  the  sight 
of  the  broad  street,  with  its  four  rows  of  spreading 
trees,  he  hurried  on  to  find  Windle.  Hidden  in  the 
doorway,  the  Professor  crouched  and  waited,  listen- 
ing to  the  oncoming  footsteps,  which  now  rang  out 
through  the  clear  night  air  with  an  almost  metallic 
distinctness.  The  dark  vestibule  had  suddenly  be- 
come very  close  and  the  Professor's  brow  dripped 
with  great  beads  of  perspiration.  With  one  hand 
he  took  off  his  felt  hat  and  threw  it  sharply  from 
him,  while  the  fingers  of  the  other  gripped  more 
tightly  a  long,  bone-handled  pocket-knife.  The  steps 
were  almost  opposite  the  doorway  now  and,  in  the 
brilliant  moonlight,  the  Professor  could  see  the  eyes 
of  Paget  peering  nervously  into  the  shadows  of  the 
vestibule.  And  then  a  long,  lean  body  hurled  itself 
from  the  darkened  doorway  into  the  searching  white 
light  of  the  street  and  the  blade  of  a  knife  whipped 

216 


"THE    PROFESSOR" 

through  the  still  air.  Three  times  it  flashed  and  fell. 
On  the  following  Monday  night  "The  Maid  of 
Mirth"  played  at  Montgomery,  but  Ivy  Hettler  was 
no  longer  the  soubrette  of  the  company.  The  man- 
ager who  had  succeeded  Stacy  Paget  did  not  like  her 
in  the  part  and  hence  recalled  the  girl  who  had  orig- 
inally played  it,  and  put  Ivy  back  in  the  chorus. 
The  same  Monday  night  found  the  Professor  on  one 
of  those  antiquated  and  lawless  side-wheel  show  boats 
which  still  work  up  and  down  the  river,  stopping 
every  evening  at  a  different  town  and  giving  a  vaude- 
ville performance  simply  as  a  subterfuge  to  sell  rum 
to  the  colored  people  and  the  poor  white  trash.  On 
four  occasions  during  the  evening  the  Professor  sang 
his  sentimental  ballads.  But  for  the  remainder  of 
the  time  he  lay  on  his  back  in  the  shadow  of  the 
deck-house  staring  up  at  the  purple  sky  and  blowing 
rings  of  cigarette  smoke  at  a  crystal  star. 


217 


THE  TWENTY-FIRST  REASON 

AS  if  to  delay  the  pleasure  of  his  home-coming 
Tolliver  hesitated  at  the  gate  and  glanced  back  down 
the  broad  street  with  its  rows  of  leafy  elms  and  grass- 
lined  walks.  He  was  smiling  as  he  came  up  the  path- 
way, and  when  he  had  reached  the  bend  and  saw  that 
his  wife  was  waiting  for  him  on  the  porch,  he  stopped 
before  a  rose-bush  and  having  cut  a  full-blown  rose 
carried  it  to  her.  She  pinned  the  flower  in  the  folds 
of  her  cool  white  dress  and  putting  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders  kissed  him  on  his  damp  forehead. 

"Oh,  Bruce,  dear,"  she  laughed,  "you're  so  hot, 
and  you're  very  late,  too.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  walk 
so  fast  from  town." 

"I  know  I'm  late,  dear,  very  late,  but  we've  been 
having  a  long,  serious,  happy  business  talk  at  the 
office  and  I  wanted  to  tell  you  all  about  it  at  once." 

In  his  boyish  excitement  he  clasped  his  fingers 
tightly  about  his  wife's  wrist  and  led  her  toward  the 
front  door. 

218 


THE    TWENTY-FIRST    REASON 

"We  can't  go  into  the  library,"  she  said,  "the 
children  are  there." 

"The  children?"  he  repeated. 

"Yes,  Alice  and  Tommy  Leonard." 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "I  didn't  understand.  We'll 
go  up  to  your  room.  Oh,  Helen,  it's  such  wonderful 
news." 

He  sank  into  a  low  chair  filled  with  chintz-covered 
cushions,  and  Mrs.  Tolliver  dropped  down  before 
him  and,  leaning  her  elbows  on  his  knees,  rested  her 
chin  between  her  palms.  They  had  been  married  now 
almost  twenty  years  and  her  figure  was  just  as  lithe, 
her  face  as  fair,  and  her  smile  just  as  winsome  and 
joyous  as  on  the  day  of  their  wedding.  For  twenty 
years  they  had  been  sweethearts. 

"Now,  Bruce,"  she  said,  "I'm  quite  ready.  Tell 
me  the  wonderful  news." 

Tolliver  drew  a  long  breath  and  began:  "The 
boys," — Tolliver  always  referred  to  the  members  of 
the  firm  that  employed  him  as  "the  boys" — "it  seems, 
got  together  and  decided  to  give  us  a  present  to 
celebrate  the  twenty-fifth  anniversary  of  the  day  I 
first  went  with  them — a  present  that  would  really 
be  a  present.  Guess !" 

219 


THE    TWENTY-FIRST    REASON 

"Bruce,"  Mrs.  Tolliver  exclaimed,  "tell  me  at  once. 
I  can't  wait  to  guess.  What  is  it?" 

"A  year  in  Europe." 

Mrs.  Tolliver  drew  back  and  gazed  at  her  husband 
with  wide-open  eyes.  "A  year  in  Europe,"  she 
gasped. 

"Exactly — that's  it.  One  year  in  Europe  with 
full  pay."  And  then  the  tension  broke  and  Helen 
Tolliver  buried  her  head  in  the  folds  of  Bruce's  coat. 
It  was  some  minutes  later  when  she  looked  up  and 
smiled  through  dimmed  eyes  into  those  of  her  hus- 
band. 

"Don't  think  I'm  crying,"  she  stammered,  "just 
because  we  are  to  have  a  year  abroad.  It's  because 
they  understand  and  appreciate  all  that  you  have 
done  for  them." 

Tolliver  nodded.  "I  know,  Helen,  dear.  For 
twenty-five  long  years  we've  worked  pretty  hard — 
you  and  I." 

"I !"  Helen  protested. 

"Yes,  you.  Many's  the  time  I  think  I  would  have 
quit  the  grind  if  you  hadn't  kept  me  going.  And 
I  tell  you,  I'm  pretty  tired — pretty  nearly  all  in. 
But  now  in  a  few  months  we'll  be  free — free  for  a 
whole  year.  Think  of  it,  Helen!  Italy  and  the 

220 


She  pinned  the  flower  in  the  folds  of  her  cool  white  dress. 


THE    TWENTY-FIRST    REASON 

French  cathedrals  and  Paris — think  of  it — Paris, 
Paris!  How  Alice  will  love  it!  I  wish  that  boy 
downstairs  would  go  home  and  we  could  tell  her 
now." 

"Alice,"  Mrs.  Tolliver  repeated — "Alice." 

"Of  course,  Alice.  We  couldn't  go  without  Alice, 
could  we?  She's  going  to  be  more  than  half  the  fun." 

With  a  quick  movement  Helen  pulled  herself  to 
her  feet  and  stood  before  her  husband,  nervously 
drawing  her  handkerchief  with  one  hand  through  the 
fingers  of  the  other. 

"You  see,  Bruce,"  she  whispered,  "you  see  Alice 
can't  go.  Alice — I  wanted  to  tell  you  on  the  porch, 
but  you  were  so  full  of  this  trip  abroad — you  see, 
Alice  is  engaged." 

Tolliver  stared  at  his  wife  with  wide-eyed  surprise. 
"Engaged,"  he  repeated. 

"Yes — to  Tommy  Leonard.  It's  all  arranged, 
and  I  promised  them  that  I  would  break  the  news 
to  you.  You're  not  angry,  are  you,  Bruce?  They're 
so  happy  and  Tommy  is  such  a  nice  boy." 

Tolliver  pulled  himself  out  of  the  chair  and  walked 
over  to  the  bay  window.  For  some  moments  he  stood 
looking  out  on  the  close-cropped  lawn,  the  neatly 
trimmed  hedge,  and  the  flowering  rose-bushes.  Then 

221 


THE    TWENTY-FIRST    REASON 

he  turned  to  his  wife  and  smiled  at  her,  but  she  saw 
that  in  those  few  moments  his  face  had  suddenly 
become  drawn  and  that  there  was  no  smile  in  his 
eyes. 

"Why,  that's  all  right,  I  suppose,"  he  said.  "It's 
just  a  little  sudden,  and — and  unexpected.  Alice 
always  seems  such  a  child  to  me,  but  I  imagine  that's 
the  way  with  all  fathers." 

"And  all  mothers,  too,"  Mrs.  Tolliver  added. 
"But  you  must  remember  Alice  is  almost  nineteen 
now." 

Tolliver  nodded,  and  after  a  moment's  silence  went 
on  speaking  again.  "There  was  another  proposition 
the  firm  made  me.  They  said  in  case  I  didn't  care 
to  go  abroad  that  I  could  keep  right  on  and  that 
they  would  give  me  five  thousand  dollars  in  place  of 
the  trip.  They  didn't  care,  you  understand,  what  I 
did,  so  long  as  they  rewarded  me  for  the  twenty-five 
years  of  work." 

"But,  Bruce,  dear,"  Helen  protested  eagerly,  "you 
don't  mean  that  you  are  thinking  of  giving  up  the 
trip  abroad  because  Alice  is  going  to  be  married. 
Just  as  soon  as  the  wedding  is  over  you  and  I  will 
start  out  on  our  second  honeymoon  and  this  one  will 
last  a  whole  long  year." 

222 


THE    TWENTY-FIRST    REASON 

Tolliver  moved  away  from  the  window  and  sat 
down  again  in  the  deep-cushioned  chair.  "Come  over 
here,  Helen,"  he  said,  "and  let's  talk  it  over." 

She  sat  at  his  feet  and,  with  her  elbow  resting  on 
his  knee,  nestled  the  mass  of  soft  blond  curls  in  the 
bend  of  her  arm.  "Now,  Bruce,"  she  said,  "please 
go  on." 

"Well,"  Tolliver  began,  "I  confess  it's  a  bit  of  a 
shock  to  me.  If  it  had  been  Peter  Wood  or  Harry 
Rowland  I  wouldn't  have  been  surprised." 

"Harry  Howland!"  Mrs.  Tolliver  protested. 
"Harry  Howland  wouldn't  propose  to  the  loveliest 
girl  that  ever  breathed.  He's  too  selfish." 

"I  wonder.  It  was  just  the  other  afternoon  out 
on  the  golf  club  porch  that  he  was  talking  to  a  lot  of 
us  old  fellows  on  this  very  subject  of  the  high  cost  of 
marriage,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  there  was  a  good 
deal  of  common-sense  in  what  he  said.  He  claimed 
that  the  bachelor  of  moderate  means  was  not  selfish, 
because,  in  not  marrying,  he  deliberately  gave  up 
the  chance  of  the  only  perfectly  happy,  well-rounded 
life  a  man  could  enjoy  in  this  world." 

"Then  why  does  he  choose  to  remain  a  bachelor?" 
Helen  snapped.  "There's  plenty  of  girls  would 
marry  Harry  if  he'd  only  ask  them." 

223 


THE    TWENTY-FIRST    REASON 

"Because  he  claimed  that  it  was  not  fair  to  the 
parents — he  argued  that  just  at  the  time  when  the 
fathers  and  mothers  had  reached  the  age  when  the 
steam  begins  to  give  out  and  had  saved  enough  to 
make  the  future  a  little  easier,  their  children,  who 
were  wholly  ignorant  of  the  cost  of  living,  started 
in  to  raise  another  set  of  mouths  and  stomachs  for 
the  old  folks  to  feed.  Harry  claimed  that  the  Coun- 
try Club  was  entirely  composed  of  old  men  who 
could  only  afford  to  play  with  old  chipped  and 
cracked  golf  balls  because  they  needed  the  money 
for  sterilized  milk  and  trained  nurses  for  their  grand- 
children." 

Mrs.  Tolliver  turned  and  looked  her  husband 
evenly  in  the  eyes.  "I  have  my  opinion  of  any 
woman  who  really  loved  a  man  and  wouldn't  marry 
him  if  he  couldn't  guarantee  her  anything  but  bread 
and  cheese  and  kisses." 

"That's  the  way  it  used  to  be,"  Tolliver  laughed, 
"but  now  they've  reversed  that  old  saying;  it's 
kisses  and  bread  and  cheese.  They  get  married  and 
make  sure  that  the  Church  and  the  State  legalize 
the  kisses  and  then  take  a  chance  on  the  bread  and 
cheese." 

"And  if  they  do,"  demanded  Helen,  "and  are 
224 


THE    TWENTY-FIRST    REASON 

satisfied  with  the  kisses  and  bread  and  cheese,  as  you 
put  it  ...  ?" 

"But  that's  just  the  trouble — they're  not  satis- 
fied, because  Jones,  who  knew  them  before  the  mar- 
riage and  who  is  rich,  asks  them  out  to  dinner  once 
so  often  and  gives  them  caviare  and  vintage  wines. 
And  even  if  Jones  doesn't  ask  them  out  and  make 
them  miserable,  how  about  the  new  babies?  The 
huskiest  baby  in  the  world  can't  digest  bread  and 
cheese,  and  it's  a  well-known  fact  that  all  babies  hate 
to  be  kissed." 

Mrs.  Tolliver  pulled  herself  to  her  feet  and,  with 
her  pink-and-white  face  greatly  flushed,  faced  her 
husband. 

"Then","  she  demanded,  "you  refuse  your  consent 
to  Alice's  marriage  to  Tommy?" 

"Not  at  ah1,"  Tolliver  said.  "Ask  them  to  come 
up.  Let's  talk  it  over." 

Tommy  Leonard,  an  ex-college  athlete  of  the 
Greek-god  type,  six  feet  and  no  waist  line,  and  Alice 
Tolliver,  a  pale,  exquisitely  frail  replica  of  her  blond 
pretty  mother,  stood  hand  in  hand  in  the  doorway. 

"Come  in,"  called  Tolliver  cheerily. 

Greatly  relieved  at  this  unexpected  and  wholly 
225 


THE    TWENTY-FIRST    REASON 

genial  greeting,  the  two  young  people  fairly  flew 
across  the  room  to  receive  the  parental  blessing. 

"Not  yet,  not  quite  yet,"  Tolliver  laughed  and 
waved  them  back.  "You  two  sit  down  on  that  lounge 
and  we'll  all  thresh  this  thing  out  together." 

The  happy  smiles  suddenly  faded  from  the  faces 
of  Tommy  and  Alice,  and  side  by  side,  they  reluc- 
tantly took  their  places  on  the  sofa  and  cast  gloomy 
glances  in  the  direction  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tolliver. 

"In  the  first  place,"  Tolliver  began,  "on  what  do 
you  two  expect  to  live?" 

Once  more  the  faces  of  the  young  people  broke 
into  the  most  cheerful  smiles,  and  Alice  fairly  laughed 
aloud.  "Is  that  all?"  she  gurgled.  "Oh,  daddy,  I 
was  afraid  it  was  something  really  serious  and 
unpleasant." 

Tolliver  drew  his  lips  into  a  straight  line  and 
glanced  in  the  direction  of  the  prospective  bride- 
groom. 

"We've  gone  over  the  matter  pretty  carefully, 
sir,"  Leonard  began,  "and  we  believe  that  we  can 
live,  and  live  pretty  well,  on  my  present  income ;  and, 
of  course,  my  salary  will  be  increased  from  time  to 
time." 

"I'm  glad  that  you  are  not  counting  too  strongly," 
226 


In  the  first  place,"  Totliver  began,  "  on  what  do  you 
two  expect  to  live  ?  " 


THE    TWENTY-FIRST    REASON 

Tolliver  said,  "on  these  occasional  increases  in  your 
wages.  The  directors  of  banks  in  small  towns  are 
not  usually  given  to  raising  the  salary  of  their  pay- 
ing tellers  with  any  great  frequency  and,  believe  me, 
Tommy,  there  is  a  limit  and  the  limit  is  not  a  very 
high  one.  Without  capital  I  fear  you  will  find  it 
difficult  to  make  money  on  the  side  and,  to  be  quite 
frank,  I  don't  know  where  the  capital  is  coming  from. 
If  I  were  a  millionnaire  I'd  willingly  hand  over  half 
of  it  to  Alice  to-morrow — that  is,  if  I  thought  it 
would  make  her  happy,  but  I'm  not  a  millionnaire. 
I  could  do  very  little  to  help  you." 

With  her  blue  eyes  ablaze,  Alice  sat  forward  on 
the  sofa  and  looked  her  father  fairly  in  his  now 
serious  face. 

"There  is  one  thing,  father,"  she  began  most  im- 
pressively, "that  I  want  you  to  understand  at  the 
start.  Tommy  and  I  do  not  expect  or  want  any 
kind  of  help  from  you.  We  have  already  agreed 
that  rather  than  go  to  you,  Tommy  would  be  a 
policeman  and  I  would  scrub  floors.  Not  that  I 
don't  appreciate  how  kind  and  good  you  are,  but  we, 
both  of  us,  understand  your  circumstances,  just  as 
we  understand  our  own.  We  have  gone  into  every 
detail  and  have  thought  of  every  expense.'* 

227 


THE    TWENTY-FIRST    REASON 

A  blush  of  motherly  pride  spread  over  the  delicate 
features  of  Mrs.  Tolliver,  and  she  glanced  admir- 
ingly at  her  daughter. 

"You  must  remember,  Bruce,"  she  said,  "that 
Alice  is  not  without  practical  experience.  You  know 
how  well  she  kept  house  for  us  when  I  was  ill  last 
winter." 

"Really,  Mr.  Tolliver,"  Leonard  insisted,  "I'm 
sure  we  could  do  it.  We  wouldn't  think  of  marriage 
unless  we  had  considered  every  contingency." 

Tolliver  stuck  his  hands  deep  into  his  trouser 
pockets,  pursed  his  lips,  and  glanced  in  turn  at  his 
wife  and  daughter  and  then  at  Leonard.  "I'll  tell 
you  three  a  story,"  he  said.  "It's  a  story  of  the 
race-track,  but  I  think  it  rather  applies  to  this  case. 
One  day  a  race  was  just  about  to  start  and  the  owner 
of  the  favorite  was  standing  on  the  lawn  watching 
the  horses  which  were  already  at  the  post.  A  very 
excited  young  man  who  had  bet  on  the  favorite  ran 
up  to  the  owner  and  said:  'I've  bet  on  your  horse. 
He's  bound  to  win,  don't  you  think  so?'  The  owner 
kept  his  field  glasses  on  the  horses  and  replied  to  the 
young  man,  'No,  I  shouldn't  think  so.'  'Why  not?' 
gasped  the  young  man,  who  was  very  much  surprised. 
'There  are  just  twenty  reasons,'  the  owner  said,  'why 

228 


THE    TWENTY-FIRST    REASON 

my  horse  should  not  win.  He  may  be  left  at  the 
post,  or  he  may  stumble,  or  he  may  put  his  foot  in 
a  hole  and  break  his  leg,  or  the  jockey  may  break 
his  stirrup,  or  his  weights  may  fall  out,  or — :  Just 
then  the  horses  started,  and  the  favorite,  who  was 
on  the  outside,  cut  across  the  track,  got  jammed 
against  the  rail  by  the  other  horses,  and  the  jockey 
was  thrown  over  the  fence  and  ignominiously  landed 
in  the  infield.  The  owner  put  away  his  glasses  and 
turning  to  the  young  man  said:  'I  never  saw  that 
happen  before.  It  seems  that  there  are  twenty-one 
reasons.' '  For  some  moments  there  was  silence  and 
then  Tolliver  continued :  "From  my  experience  I  have 
found  that  it  is  the  twenty-first  reason  that  makes 
the  best-laid  schemes  gang  aft  a-gley,  and  causes 
most. of  the  trouble  in  this  world.  The  jockeys  who 
ride  our  favorite  hobbies  are  always  being  thrown 
over  the  fence  or  doing  some  foolish  thing  that  we 
hadn't  expected  and  hadn't  prepared  for." 

Whereat  Alice  Tolliver  suddenly  broke  into  peals 
of  laughter  and  clapped  her  hands  from  sheer  youth- 
ful pleasure.  "But,  daddy,  we  have  prepared  for  the 
twenty-first  reason.  We  thought  of  it  after  we  had 
everything  arranged  for,  and  we  call  it  the  contin- 
gency fund.  We  took  it  from  our  Christmas  and 

229 


THE    TWENTY-FIRST    REASON 

anniversary  gift  expenses  and  Tommy  will  not  take 
out  as  much  life-insurance  as  he  had  intended.  So 
you  see  we  have  prepared  for  the  unexpected,  don't 
you,  daddy?" 

Tolliver  smiled  wearily  and  slowly  nodded  his 
assent.  "Yes,  I  see,"  he  said,  "and  I  only  hope  that 
your  matrimonial  books  will  balance  at  the  end  of 
the  first  year.  If  your  mother  says  'yes'  you  have 
my  permission.  I  have  never  denied  her  anything 
yet,  have  I,  my  dear?" 

Helen  Tolliver,  whose  emotions  had  been  consider- 
ably stirred,  came  to  her  husband's  side  and,  bury- 
ing her  head  on  his  shoulder,  tearfully  admitted  that 
he  never  had.  Thus  it  was  that  Alice  Tolliver  and 
Tommy  Leonard  were  officially  betrothed. 

It  was  agreed  that  the  wedding  should  take  place 
on  the  first  day  of  October,  and  that  just  one  week 
later  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tolliver  should  start  forth  on 
their  second  honeymoon  and  for  their  first  sight  of 
the  purple  skies  and  the  gray-green  hills  of  Italy  and 
the  Riviera.  Those  were  busy  days  for  the  Tolliver 
family — the  combination  of  the  marriage  of  an  only 
child  and  the  first  trip  abroad  was  indeed  a  serious 
one,  especially  as  the  trip  was  for  a  whole  year  and 

230 


THE    TWENTY-FIRST    REASON 

the  marriage,  if  one  could  judge  by  the  devotion  of 
the  young  couple  to  each  other,  at  least  a  journey 
for  life.  The  little  suburban  town  was  fairly  agog 
with  excitement,  for  marriages  among  its  prominent 
citizens  were  none  too  frequent  and  few  were  better 
known  or  better  liked  than  the  Tollivers.  The  great 
day  dawned  at  last,  and  the  air  was  filled  with  the 
orange  sunlight  and  the  cool,  crisp  breezes  of  the 
early  Autumn.  It  was  in  all  ways  a  day  long  to  be 
remembered  and  talked  over  for  years  to  come  by  the 
gossips  of  the  town.  From  the  early  gathering  of 
the  guests  at  the  pretty  little  ivy-covered  church 
until  their  departure  down  the  rice-covered  steps  of 
the  bride's  home,  late  the  same  afternoon,  surely 
nature  and  the  Tollivers  had  done  their  best  and 
their  best  had  proved  most  bountiful  indeed. 

"And  now,"  said  Tolliver  to  Mrs.  Tolliver,  as  the 
last  frock-coated  guest  waved  his  silk  hat  from  the 
gate  in  hilarious  farewell,  "now,  my  dear,  we  have 
only  ourselves  to  think  of.  I  will  get  Bridget  to 
go  up  to  the  garret  and  help  me  down  with  the 
trunks." 

"Fine,"  said  Mrs.  Tolliver,  "we're  off." 
"Nearly,"  said  Mr.  Tolliver,  and  went  to  look  for 
Bridget. 

231 


THE    TWENTY-FIRST    REASON 

To  their  friends,  of  course,  the  itinerary  of  the 
young  married  couple  remained  a  profound  secret, 
but  the  Tollivers  knew  that  the  honeymooners  were 
by  easy  stages  wending  their  happy  way  to  the  big 
brick  hotel  down  at  the  Hot  Springs  in  the  Virginia 
hills  where  so  many  young  people  have  begun  their 
lives  together.  Helen  Tolliver  was  frequently  in- 
terrupted in  her  packing  by  the  arrival  of  telegrams 
and  letters  filled  with  expressions  of  her  daughter's 
complete  happiness  and  contented  conclusions  as  to 
married  life  in  general,  as  well  as  the  frequent  reiter- 
ation of  the  news  that  Tommy  was  the  truest  and 
most  devoted  husband,  and  had  proved  his  sterling 
worth  in  a  thousand  different  ways.  "The  hotel  bills 
may  be  a  little  high,"  Alice  wrote  in  one  of  her 
letters,  "but  the  contingent  fund  is  yet  intact.  Tell 
father  that  the  'twenty-first  reason*  is  a  bugaboo 
to  frighten  timid  children." 

And  then  for  two  days  there  were  neither  tele- 
grams nor  letters.  The  missive  so  anxiously  waited 
for  arrived  when  the  Tollivers  were  at  dinner  the 
night  before  the  great  day  on  which  they  were  to 
start  on  their  second  honeymoon.  Tolliver  sat  back 
in  his  chair  while  Helen  read  the  letter  carefully 

232 


THE    TWENTY- FIRST    REASON 

through  with  a  face  that  seemed  to  grow  not  only 
more  sombre  but  even  tragic  with  each  line. 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "it  is  as  bad  as  that."  Then  she 
dismissed  the  maid  and  in  an  even,  expressionless 
voice  read  the  letter  aloud  from  its  tender  opening 
to  its  last  unhappy  line. 

"My  DEAR,  ALWAYS  LOVING  MOTHEE: 

"I  have  not  written  you  for  two  days  because  I 
could  not  say  that  all  had  been  going  well  with 
us  and  I  wanted  to  tell  you  positively  when  I  did 
write  whether  your  Alice  was  a  wife  or  a  widow. 
On  Wednesday  afternoon  a  rich  young  friend  of 
Tommy's,  a  New  York  man  named  Wallace  Jones, 
loaned  us  his  car  for  the  afternoon  and  we  decided  to 
go  to  Flag  Rock,  which  is  about  six  or  seven  miles 
from  our  hotel.  It  was  a  beautiful  limousine  car  and 
the  road  was  fine,  but  on  our  way  home  I  suppose  we 
were  going  a  little  too  fast  down  hill  and  we  struck 
a  ridge  across  the  road  which  down  here  they  call 
a  'thank-you-ma'am.'  Tommy  had  his  arm  about 
me  at  the  time  and  we  both  were  bumped  up  so  that 
our  heads  struck  the  top  of  the  limousine.  I  had 
on  my  yellow  straw  hat  with  the  blue  flowers  which 

233 


THE    TWENTY-FIRST    REASON 

Tommy  says  looks  like  an  inverted  peach  basket. 
Anyhow,  it  saved  me,  but  Tommy  was  bare-headed  as 
usual,  and  his  head  struck  a  rib  of  the  limousine  and 
he  got  what  the  doctors  call  a  depressed  fracture. 
There  are  very  good  doctors  here  who  know  just  what 
waters  you  ought  to  take  for  rheumatism,  but  they 
said  this  required  one  of  the  most  delicate  opera- 
tions in  surgery,  and  we  telephoned  to  Richmond  for 
a  surgeon.  As  soon  as  he  arrived  he  did  what  they 
call  trephining  and  now  they  say  Tommy  is  all  right. 
Unfortunately,  I'm  afraid  we  will  have  to  stay  here 
for  some  time,  as  the  doctors  say  this  is  fine  air  for 
his  recovery,  and  that  will  be  a  question  of  several 
months.  It  was  most  unfortunate  that  he  hit  his 
head  on  the  left  side,  for  that  paralyzed  his  right 
hand  and  it  seems  that  Tommy  counts  out  the  money 
at  the  bank  with  his  right  hand.  It  is  all  terrible  and 
I  don't  know  what  we  are  to  do  about  the  expense. 
The  Richmond  surgeon  said  it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  his 
profession  to  charge  less  than  a  thousand  dollars  for 
the  operation,  and  then  there  are  the  other  doctors 
and  the  nurses  and  the  hotel  rooms  are  very  dear 
for  anything  except  a  honeymoon  and  the  colored 
bell-boys  make  faces  at  you  every  time  you  don't 
give  them  a  quarter  for  bringing  you  a  lump  of  ice 

234 


THE    TWENTY-FIRST    REASON 

or  a  fresh  towel,  and  Tommy  needs  so  many  towels 
for  his  poor  head.  Do  tell  us,  mamma,  please,  what 
I  am  to  do.  We  were  so  very  happy  before  that 
Mr.  Jones  loaned  us  his  car,  which  would  have  been 
all  right  if  it  had  been  an  open  car,  but  he  couldn't 
be  held  responsible  because  it  was  really  not  the 
fault  of  the  car,  but  that  awful  Hhank-you-ma'am.' 
Write  me,  please,  soon,  mamma,  what  am  I  going  to 
do  about  it  all. 

"Your  loving  but  miserable  daughter, 

"ALICE." 

"Well,  what  are  we  to  do?"  said  Mrs.  Tolliver, 
and  now  that  the  strain  of  reading  the  letter  was 
over  her  -voice  broke  perceptibly  and  tears  came  into 
her  pretty  blue  eyes. 

"Well,"  said  Tolliver,  smiling  across  the  table. 
"The  main  thing  is  that  Tommy  is  all  right  and  now 
it  is  up  to  us  to  come  to  their  assistance.  Alice 
evidently  is  not  scrubbing  floors  as  she  says  nothing 
about  it,  and  in  Tommy's  present  condition  I  doubt 
if  he  could  get  a  job  as  a  policeman  even  if  he  wanted 
it.  I  will  see  'the  boys'  to-morrow  morning  and  ask 
them  if  that  offer  of  theirs  of  the  check  for  five  thou- 
sand is  open,  and  I've  no  doubt  that  it  is." 

235 


THE    TWENTY-FIRST    REASON 

"And  our  trip  abroad,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Tolliver. 

Bruce  walked  around  the  table  and  put  his  hands 
gently  on  his  wife's  trembling  shoulders.  "That's 
off,  I'm  afraid,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "all  off  for  the 
present.  Perhaps  twenty-five  years  from  now  we 
may  have  another  chance.  But  just  now  I'll  go 
telegraph  Alice  not  to  worry  and  that  you  will  be 
coming  down  there  to  see  her  by  the  first  train  you 
can  catch  to-morrow.v 

"You're  so  good,  Bruce,"  Mrs.  Tolliver  said  very 
tearfully.  "Of  course  we  couldn't  go  now.  It's  just 
as  you  said,  it's  the  twenty-first  reason  that  makes 
all  of  the  trouble,  but  how  could  any  one  foresee  such 
a  thing  as  this?  Who  could  expect  a  thousand  dol- 
lar operation  and  all  of  those  other  fearful  expenses 
the  very  first  week  of  their  honeymoon !" 

"Trephining,  I  believe,  is  uncommon,"  said  Tol- 
liver, "but  if  most  of  the  mothers  and  fathers  all 
over  the  world  aren't  giving  up  trips  abroad  to  pay 
for  trephining,  most  of  them  are  giving  up  some- 
thing to  pay  their  daughters'  butcher  bills  or  house- 
rent  or  for  something  equally  necessary,  and  at  least 
to  the  daughters  and  sons-in-law  quite  as  unex- 
pected." 

"I  suppose  they  are,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Tolliver,  "but 
236 


THE    TWENTY-FIRST    REASON 

really,  Bruce,  they've  been  doing  it  for  so  long  that 
they  seem  to  like  it." 

"That's  true,  too,"  said  Tolliver,  "but  again  they 
might  like  the  trip  abroad  if  they  were  ever  let  get 
farther  out  to  sea  than  the  docks  at  Hoboken." 


237 


SIDE-TRACKED 

iHE  New  York  car  was  at  last  left  alone  and  at 
peace  on  a  deserted  siding  far  up  the  junction  yard. 
Philip  Hyde  closed  the  book  he  had  been  reading, 
looked  out  of  the  window  on  a  very  high  and  most 
uninteresting  bank  of  cinders,  and  started  in  search 
of  his  friend,  James  Werden.  He  found  him  sitting 
on  the  steps  of  the  end  platform  gazing  up  at  a 
perfect  midsummer  silver  moon  which  shone  resplen- 
dent from  a  cloudless,  purple  sky. 

"Get  off  those  steps,"  Hyde  said,  "and  give  me  a 
chance  to  look  about.  Where  are  we  anyhow?" 

The  two  young  men  swung  themselves  to  the 
ground  and  slowly  climbed  up  the  steep,  crumbling 
bank. 

"This,"  explained  Werden,  "is  the  ancient  village 
of  Clifton  Junction — Clifton  Junction,  Virginia — 
and  the  porter  tells  me  that  the  northbound  train 
will  pick  us  up  in  something  over  an  hour.  That  is, 
it  will  if  it's  on  time,  and  if  the  southbound  train, 
which  should  get  here  just  before  it,  is  on  time, 

238 


SIDE-TRACKED 

both  of  which  events  he  seemed  to  regard  as  ex- 
tremely remote  possibilities." 

They  were  standing  on  a  broad,  dusty  roadway, 
which  for  several  hundred  yards  ran  parallel  to  the 
railway,  and  at  the  end  of  this  they  could  see  the 
lights  of  the  station. 

Across  the  roadway  from  the  tracks  there  was  a 
dismal-looking  row  of  little  fruit  stores  and  cheap 
restaurants,  lighted  by  an  occasional  smoky  oil  lamp 
or  a  flaming  kerosene  torch,  and  one  building,  which 
was  no  less  forlorn  but  a  little  larger  than  its  des- 
titute neighbors,  had  a  transparency  hung  out  show- 
ing the  words:  "Larrabee's  Place." 

Back  of  where  they  stood  the  road  ran  as  far  as 
an  old  covered  wooden  bridge,  which  crossed  the  rail- 
road tracks,  and  where  civilization,  if  Clifton  Junc- 
tion could  be  called  civilization,  seemed  to  cease 
entirely.  Beyond  this  they  could  see  nothing  but 
the  black  jagged  lines  of  endless  wooded  hills  cut  out 
against  the  purple  sky. 

"That  bridge,"  said  Werden,  "leads  to  the  town 
inn,  which  is  closed.  The  residential  quarter — at 
least  so  the  porter  assures  me — lies  down  there  back 
of  the  station,  and  the  white-light  district  is  confined 
to  the  barn-like  structure  illuminated  with  the  oil 

239 


SIDE-TRACKED 

lamps  on  our  immediate  right.     Some  nights  they 
have  moving  pictures  and  vaudeville." 

"Judging  by  the  welcoming  lights  over  the  box- 
office  window,"  Hyde  said,  "it  seems  to  be  one  of 
those  nights.  I  suppose,  as  confirmed  patrons  of  the 
drama,  we  really  ought  to  go,  but  first  I'm  for  a 
stroll  down  the  main  street." 

Slowly  they  sauntered  along  the  dusty  road  in  the 
direction  of  the  station. 

"Do  you  suppose,"  said  Werden,  "that  people 
really  live  the  whole  year  round  in  a  place  like  this  ?" 

Hyde  shook  his  head.  "They  do  if  you  call 
breathing  and  eating  and  sleeping  living.  Besides, 
some  nights  they  have  vaudeville  and  moving  pic- 
tures." 

For  a  moment  they  hesitated  before  the  door  of 
the  hotel,  or,  rather,  the  barroom  for,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  a  hallway  just  broad  enough  for  the  stairs 
which  led  to  the  upper  part  of  the  house,  the  cafe 
occupied  the  entire  ground  floor. 

"Could  I  proffer  you  a  drink?"  asked  Hyde. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Werden,  "we  might  try  a 
bottle  of  ginger  ale  or  something  soft.  It's  too  warm 
for  a  regular  drink,  and  anyhow  I'd  be  afraid  of  the 
whiskey  in  a  joint  like  this." 

240 


SIDE-TRACKED 

They  pushed  aside  the  swinging  door  and  stepped 
into  the  big  bare  room.  All  of  the  windows  were 
closed  and  the  air  was  foul  and  stifling.  In  the 
centre  there  was  a  pool  table,  over  which  two  oil 
lamps  flickered  and  sputtered,  and  dripped  oil  on  the 
faded  cloth.  On  the  right  there  was  a  bar,  and  on 
the  wall  back  of  it  two  cheap  oil  paintings  covered 
with  bedraggled  mosquito  net,  a  long  shelf  decorated 
with  a  few  empty  bottles,  and  a  cracked  and  fly- 
specked  mirror.  Dirty  glasses  littered  the  top  of 
the  sloppy  bar,  the  floor  looked  as  if  it  had  not  been 
swept  for  months,  and  strips  of  faded  wall  paper 
hung  from  the  discolored  walls. 

In  all  ways  the  place  seemed  typical  of  the  town. 
Instinctively,  Werden  and  Hyde  turned  quickly 
toward  the  door,  and  as  they  did  so  Larrabee,  the 
proprietor,  slowly  arose  from  a  rocking-chair  where 
he  had  been  concealed  by  the  far  end  of  the  bar. 
At  the  sound  of  his  voice  they  once  more  turned 
back  to  the  room.  As  well  as  they  could  see  by  the 
dim  light  of  the  oil  lamps,  the  man  looked  to  be  at 
least  seventy.  He  tried  to  hold  his  tall,  gaunt  figure 
erect,  but  his  heavy  shoulders  seemed  to  sag  from 
their  own  weight,  his  walk  was  little  better  than  a 

241 


SIDE-TRACKED 

shuffle,  and  the  bloodshot  eyes  and  trembling  hand 
proclaimed  a  hard-spent  life. 

"Don't  run  away,  gentlemen,"  he  grumbled; 
"didn't  you  come  to  buy?"  Both  from  the  manner 
of  his  speech  and  movements  it  was  evident  that  the 
old  man  was  more  or  less  befuddled  by  his  own  liquor. 

"Of  course  we  did,"  Werden  said,  "but  we  didn't 
see  you  at  first — thought  the  place  was  deserted." 

"You  weren't  so  far  wrong  at  that,"  Larrabee 
chuckled.  "It  is  pretty  well-nigh  deserted."  He 
ran  his  clawlike  fingers  through  his  long,  unkempt 
beard,  shifted  his  eyes  about  the  dirty,  neglected 
room,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  with  a  ragged 
towel  proceeded  to  wipe  off  the  far  end  of  the  bar. 

"Waiting  for  the  New  York  train?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Werden,  "but  I  hear  it's  not  due  for 
an  hour.  Could  you  suggest  any  way  in  which  we 
could  put  in  our  time?  It's  too  hot  to  sleep  in  the 
car." 

"There's  moving  pictures  to-night,"  Larrabee  said 
— "moving  pictures  and  vaudeville." 

Werden  raised  his  eyebrows  in  polite  interest. 

"And  vaudeville!"  he  repeated. 

"Sure,  a  young  couple — Max  Mohr  and  Estelle 
La  Rue — been  here  all  week.  Stopped  at  my  hotel, 

242 


SIDE-TRACKED 

but    they're    taking    the    Eastern    train    to-night. 
What'll  it  be,  gentlemen?" 

"Two  bottles  of  ginger  ale,"  Hyde  said.  "Are 
they  good  performers,  this  Mohr  and  his  partner?" 

Heedless  of  the  order,  Larrabee  continued  to  lean 
heavily  on  the  bar  and  his  eyes  blinked  at  Hyde's 
ignorance.  "Didn't  you  ever  hear  of  Max  Mohr 
in  New  York?" 

"I  don't  know  very  many  vaudeville  people,"  Hyde 
apologized.  "What's  their  act  like?" 

"Songs  and  dances,  and  Max  tells  some  comical 
stories — dress  like  Italians.  She's  a  beauty,  she  is — 
red-haired  and  wild  as  a  colt.  Beauty  and  the  Beast 
they  call  themselves  in  the  advertisements.  He's  an 
ugly  little  runt  all  right,  but  both  of  them  can  sing. 
She's  the  handsomest  woman  ever  stopped  at  my 
hotel — the  handsomest,  I  guess,  I  ever  saw,  and  I'll 
bet  she  was  a  lady  once,  too.  You  ought  to  hear 
them.  But  I'll  tell  you  he  isn't  near  so  good  on  the 
stage  as  when  he  plays  upstairs  here  in  the  parlor 
for  Dolly  and  me.  He's  got  a  voice  Tike  an  angel. 
You'll  see  my  girl  Dolly,  too,  if  you  go  to  the  hall. 
She  sells  the  tickets.  What  was  it  you  allowed  you'd 
drink?" 

"Ginger  ale,"  said  Hyde. 
243 


SIDE-TRACKED 

The  old  man  drew  his  hand  across  his  hard, 
straight  mouth.  "What's  the  matter  with  regular 
liquor?"  he  asked.  "  'Fraid  of  it?" 

Hyde  glanced  at  the  half-empty  bottle  standing 
on  the  bar  surrounded  by  dirty  glasses. 

"Yes,  a  little,"  he  said,  and  smiled  genially  at  the 
barkeeper. 

Larrabee  winked  one  of  his  bleary  eyes  and  with 
much  difficulty  disappeared  under  the  bar.  In  a  few 
moments  he  reappeared  with  a  bottle. 

"This  is  my  own  special  brand.  You  can  always 
depend  on  a  Virginia  gentleman  for  two  things — a 
good  bottle  of  whiskey  and  a  clean  shooting  iron." 

From  his  hip  pocket  he  pulled  out  a  glistening 
revolver  and  laid  it  solemnly  on  the  bar  at  the  side 
of  the  whiskey  bottle. 

"Now  will  you  drink?"  he  threatened.  His  voice 
was  husky  and  his  movements  were  most  unsteady. 

Hyde  pushed  the  revolver  across  the  bar. 

"Put  your  gun  up,"  he  said.  "I'll  drink  without 
that.  Besides,  I  don't  like  professional  Southerners." 

The  old  man  stuck  the  revolver  back  in  his  pocket 
and  with  his  drink-inflamed  eyes  glowered  at  Hyde. 

"No  offense,"  he  said.  "You're  all  right,  I  guess, 
but  that's  more  than  you  can  say  about  some  of 
*  244 


SIDE-TRACKED 

you  Yanks."  He  looked  up  at  the  ceiling,  winked 
significantly,  and  mumbled:  "I  know  one  that'll 
stand  some  watching." 

When  he  had  served  his  customers,  Larrabee 
poured  out  half  a  tumbler  of  whiskey  for  himself  and 
tossed  it  off  as  if  it  had  been  water.  It  was  evi- 
dently an  effort  to  show  how  a  Southern  gentleman 
drank.  The  two  young  men  said  good  night  and 
started  for  the  door. 

"Going  to  the  vaudeville?"  Larrabee  called  after 
them. 

"Sure,"  said  Werden. 

The  old  man  leaned  unsteadily  against  the  bar. 
"Good,"  he  mumbled,  "then  you  can  tell  my  Dolly 
that  I  won't  be  around  to  get  her  to-night.  Tell  her 
to  come  right  home  as  soon  as  the  show's  over." 

They  found  her  at  the  box  office  window,  a  blond, 
pretty,  frail  girl  with  a  wonderful  pink  and  white 
complexion,  and  big,  round,  wistful  eyes,  innocent  as 
those  of  a  child.  She  wore  a  simple  white  muslin 
dress  with  a  bow  of  blue  ribbon  at  her  throat. 
About  her  neck  there  was  a  string  of  coral  beads 
and  in  the  masses  of  her  golden  hair  she  had  placed 
a  wild  rose,  which  gave  her  quite  an  air  of  coquetry. 
She  was  a  fine  example  of  that  truly  feminine  type 

245 


SIDE-TRACKED 

still  to  be  found  about  the  piazzas  of  the  fashionable 
summer  resorts  in  the  South,  and  both  Werden  and 
Hyde  gave  a  little  gasp  of  astonishment  when  they 
first  saw  her  sitting  in  the  stuffy  box  office.  When 
Werden  told  her  that  her  father  was  not  to  come  for 
her  the  girl's  pale,  cupid-bow  lips  broke  into  a  smile 
which  seemed  to  say  that  Werden's  news  was  not 
news  at  all  but  an  old,  old  story. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  in  her  low,  sweet  voice; 
"thank  you,  ever  so  much."  And  then  as  the  young 
men  seemed  inclined  to  linger  before  the  box  office 
and  to  continue  the  conversation,  she  added:  "You'd 
better  hurry  right  in.  The  performance  will  be  over 
in  a  few  minutes.  You'll  just  be  in  time  to  hear 
Mohr  and  La  Rue  do  their  last  turn." 

The  hall  was  a  dingy,  low-ceilinged  room,  lighted 
by  half  a  dozen  smoking  oil  lamps.  At  the  far  end 
there  was  a  narrow  raised  stage  and  before  this  a 
piano.  Seated  on  the  rough  wooden  benches  there 
were  perhaps  twenty-five  men  and  boys.  When 
Werden  and  Hyde  took  their  seats  in  the  rear  of 
the  hall,  Mohr  and  La  Rue  were  already  on  the  stage 
and,  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  tinkling,  ill-tuned 
piano,  were  singing  the  Italian  dialect  ballad,  "My 
Marietta." 

246 


SIDE-TRACKED 

Max  Mohr  was  of  a  type  once  popular  in  the  old- 
time  variety  halls,  but  now  relegated  to  moving- 
picture  houses  and  summer  beer-gardens. 

Like  most  of  his  kind,  he  had  been  born  on  Hester 
Street,  had  learned  his  dancing  steps  on  street  cor- 
ners, and  his  comedy  methods  at  the  Bowery  and 
the  Eighth  Avenue  burlesque  houses.  The  boy's 
figure — for,  except  in  his  knowledge  of  crime,  he  was 
only  a  boy — was  slight  and  wiry,  even  graceful,  but 
his  face  was  that  of  the  smart,  knowing  Polish  Jew, 
born  among  the  worst  class  of  immigrants,  and  bred 
in  a  district  of  New  York  where  law  and  order  are 
only  bywords.  Unpleasant,  almost  repulsive,  as  was 
his  face,  there  was  still  left  a  certain  sweetness  in  his 
voice  and  a  kind  of  passionate  charm  in  the  daring 
of  his  love-making.  His  confidence  in  his  own  ability 
was  abnormal,  even  for  a  vaudeville  performer  of  his 
own  low  type,  and  he  seemed  always  to  be  working 
rather  to  amuse  his  partner  than  to  interest  his  au- 
dience. To  the  people  on  the  benches  near  the  stage 
he  paid  no  heed  at  all,  but  both  Werden  and  Hyde 
noticed  that  while  singing  the  most  impassioned  lines 
of  his  song  he  glanced  to  the  back  of  the  room.  In- 
stinctively they  turned  and  saw  that  Dolly  Larrabee 

247 


SIDE-TRACKED 

was  standing  in  the  doorway  which  led  from  the  box 
office  to  the  interior  of  the  hall. 

Hyde  gently  nudged  Werden.  "Clifton  Junction," 
he  whispered,  "seems  to  be  waking  up.  Do  you 
remember  what  that  old  barkeeper  Larrabee  said 
about  a  Yank  that  would  stand  watching?" 

By  way  of  reply  Werden  grinned  cheerfully  and 
in  the  dim  light  of  a  neighboring  lamp  tried  to  read 
the  little  one-sheet  programme  that  Miss  Larrabee 
had  handed  him  with  the  tickets. 

"Personally,"  he  said,  "I'm  most  interested  in  the 
lady  performer  with  the  Zaza-colored  hair.  Here  it 
is:  'Max  Mohr  and  Estelle  La  Rue,  New  York's 
favorite  artists — Beauty  and  the  Beast — in  songs 
and  dances.'  She's  a  beauty  all  right,  and  she  cer- 
tainly doesn't  belong  in  this  kind  of  a  place.  I  tell 
you  there's  real  distinction  for  you,  and  did  you  ever 
see  such  poise?" 

Hyde  shook  his  head.  "I  can't  make  it  out  at  all. 
I've  seen  a  lot  of  leading  soubrettes  in  musical  come- 
dies on  Broadway  who  weren't  in  her  class.  She 
can  sing  and  she  can  dance — that  is,  she  apparently 
could  if  she  wanted  to — and  rny !  but  isn't  she  good 
to  look  at.  There's  a  reason,  but  it  surely  can't  be 
that  little  Polish  kid." 

248 


SIDE-TRACKED 

To  the  eye  of  the  practised  theatregoer,  it  was 
evident  at  a  glance  that  Estelle  La  Rue  had  sunk  very 
far  below  the  position  to  which  her  ability  and  beauty 
entitled  her.  Even  the  dress  of  the  Italian  street 
singer  she  wore,  old  and  frayed  as  it  was,  had  evi- 
dently once  cost  a  great  deal  of  money.  Like  her 
partner,  she,  too,  seemed  wholly  indifferent  to  the 
provincial  audience,  but,  unlike  him,  her  performance 
was  altogether  listless  and  evidently  but  a  shadow 
of  what  it  might  have  been.  When  they  had  finished 
their  song  and  the  curtain  fell,  the  small  audience 
clamored  loudly  for  more,  but  Mohr  and  La  Rue 
evidently  knew  that  it  was  their  last  turn  of  their 
last  night  in  Clifton  Junction  and  positively  refused 
to  appear  again.  There  was  a  short  series  of 
comic  moving  pictures  and  then  the  audience  got 
up,  stretched  itself,  and  wandered  slowly  out  of  the 
dingy,  ill-smelling  hall  into  the  warm,  moonlight 
night.  The  two  Northerners  stopped  on  the  curb, 
just  across  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  box  office, 
and  watched  Miss  Larrabee  take  the  tin  money  box 
from  the  drawer,  lock  it,  and  then  put  out  the  lamp. 
A  moment  later  the  girl  came  out  carrying  the  box 
under  her  arm  and,  as  she  passed,  nodded  and  smiled 
pleasantly  at  the  two  young  men. 

249 


SIDE-TRACKED 

Hyde  approached  her  in  his  most  deferential 
manner. 

"Couldn't  we  accompany  you  as  far  as  the  hotel?'* 
he  asked.  "It  seems  hardly  safe  for  you  to  be  walk- 
ing the  streets  alone  with  all  that  money." 

The  girl  stopped  and  laughingly  shook  the  box  to 
make  the  few  quarters  and  dimes  it  contained  jingle 
cheerfully. 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  said;  "it's  not  very  heavy, 
and  I've  only  got  to  carry  it  around  the  corner. 
Then  I  must  come  back  and  lock  up.  Good  night." 

They  watched  her  until  she  had  disappeared,  and 
once  more  found  themselves  quite  alone.  The  audi- 
ence had  somehow  melted  into  the  shadows,  and  the 
little  town  was  as  silent  and  deserted  as  a  graveyard 
at  midnight.  Werden  opened  his  watch  and  closed 
it  with  a  snap. 

"It's  a  good  half-hour  to  train  time,  and  not  an 
adventure  in  sight.  Don't  you  think  as  fellow  wan- 
derers from  the  great  city  we  ought  to  call  on  Mr. 
Max  Mohr?  Also  we  might  meet  the  beautiful 
Estelle  La  Rue.  Even  to  say  'How  are  you?'  to  a 
lady  who  looks  like  that  would  be  an  adventure." 

"I  have  no  intention  of  calling  on  Mr.  Max  Mohr," 
Hyde  said  with  some  asperity.  "We  are  in  a  foreign, 

250 


SIDE-TRACKED 

perhaps  a  hostile  country  and,  anyhow,  I  don't  be- 
lieve in  butting  in  where  we're  not  wanted.  I  am 
perfectly  willing  to  go  back  to  the  hall  and  wait 
there  for  the  train  or  until  we  are  put  out,  but  that's 
as  far  as  I'll  go." 

"Good,"  laughed  Werden.  "We'll  sit  down  and 
watch  for  Miss  La  Rue.  I'd  really  like  to  see  what 
she  looks  like  off  the  stage." 

And  so  in  silence  they  returned  to  the  hall,  which 
was  now  quite  deserted.  All  of  the  lamps  had  been 
turned  out  except  one  at  the  left  side  of  the  stage 
just  over  the  piano,  and  the  light  from  this  was  so 
meagre  that  the  two  young  men  had  considerable 
difficulty  in  groping  their  way  to  a  bench  in  the 
rear  of  the  hall. 

"Is  this  your  idea  of  an  adventure?"  Hyde  whis- 
pered. "Personally  I  prefer  the  moonlight  and  fresh 
air." 

"Wait,"  said  Werden,  and  as  he  spoke  Mohr  and 
Estelle  La  Rue  came  out  of  the  door  which  led  from 
the  stage  to  the  auditorium.  The  girl  continued  on 
toward  the  front  door  of  the  hall,  but  the  man 
crossed  the  room  and  sat  down  before  the  piano. 

"Aren't  you  coming?"  she  called. 

As  if  to  show  his  indifference,  Mohr  played  over 
251 


SIDE-TRACKED 

a  few  chords  and  bummed  the  opening  bars  of  "My 
Marietta." 

"Not  jet,"  he  called  back  to  her.  "I'll  be  over 
to  the  hotel  before  the  train  starts.  I  think  I'll  stay 
here  now  and  help  Dolly  close  up.  You  can  do  the 
packing.  There's  not  much  of  it.  See  you  later, 
Stella." 

The  woman  was  standing  within  a  few  feet  of 
where  Hyde  and  Werden  sat,  but  they  were  in  the 
shadow  of  the  wall,  and  she  was  unconscious  of  their 
presence.  For  a  moment  she  stood  quite  motionless 
looking  at  Mohr;  then  she  took  a  step  toward  him, 
but  apparently  changed  her  mind,  shrugged  her 
shoulders,  and  walked  slowly  from  the  hall. 

She  had  been  gone  but  a  few  minutes  when  Dolly 
Larrabee  returned.  In  one  hand  she  carried  a  small 
valise  and,  apparently  not  wishing  Mohr  to  see  it, 
carefully  hid  it  behind  the  open  door.  Then  she 
walked  down  the  aisle  and  joined  him  at  the  piano. 
By  the  dim  light  of  the  single  bracket-lamp  over 
Mohr*s  head  Hyde  and  Werden  could  dimly  see  what 
was  taking  place.  The  girl  rested  her  elbows  on  the 
piano  and,  with  her  chin  between  her  palms,  looked 
steadfastly  down  at  Mohr,  who  continued  to  half 
sing,  half  hum  a  coon  lullaby,  and  accompany  himself 

252 


SIDE-TRACKED 

softly  on  the  piano.  With  his  right  hand  still  on 
the  keys  he  held  out  his  left  to  her,  and  she  took  it 
in  both  of  hers  and  for  a  moment  pressed  it  against 
her  cheek. 

Back  in  the  darkness  of  the  rear  of  the  hall 
Werden  nudged  Hyde.  "It  looks  bad  to  me,"  he 
whispered. 

The  boy  at  the  piano  resumed  his  singing  and 
playing.  His  voice  grew  a  little  louder,  and  he  ran 
on  from  one  song  to  another  without  interruption, 
often  singing  but  one  verse,  and  frequently  repeat- 
ing that  several  times.  Sometimes  he  sang  in  English 
and  sometimes  in  Italian  dialect,  and  again  in  pure 
Italian,  but  they  were  all  songs  of  love,  and  Werden 
and  Hyde  began  to  understand  why  old  Larrabee 
had  said  Max  sang  like  an  angel.  Even  the  two 
young  men  back  in  the  shadows  of  the  bare,  dingy 
hall  were  fascinated  by  the  innate  art  of  the  Polish 
boy.  At  his  birth  God  had  put  into  him  the  love 
of  women,  and  had  given  him  a  voice  with  which  he 
could  tell  his  love  and  make  women  love  him.  It  was 
an  accomplishment  which  Max  Mohr  had  practised 
since  his  childhood,  and  better  than  any  one  else  he 
knew  his  own  power.  If  there  had  been  any  doubt 
in  the  mind  of  Dolly  Larrabee,  the  Pole  had  evidently 

253 


SIDE-TRACKED 

dispelled  it.  Werden  and  Hyde  watched  him  fas- 
cinate her  and  draw  her  to  him  as  a  snake  does  its 
helpless  prey.  They  watched  him  rise  slowly  from 
the  piano.  With  a  low  sob  the  girl  came  to  him, 
and  he  put  his  arms  about  her  and  kissed  her  full 
on  the  lips.  Then  he  placed  his  hands  on  her 
shoulders  and,  holding  her  at  arm's  length,  looked 
evenly  into  her  eyes.  He  spoke  to  her  in  a  voice  that 
was  half  prayer,  half  command,  and  the  words  rang 
out  clearly  and  echoed  through  the  bare,  cheerless 
hall.  "You  will  go  away  with  me  to-night?" 

Unflinching,  the  girl  looked  back  into  his  eyes. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  will  go  with  you  to-night." 

It  was  just  at  this  moment  that  Werden  and  Hyde 
heard  the  rustle  of  a  woman's  dress  and,  looking 
about,  saw  the  tall  figure  of  Estelle  La  Rue  standing 
in  the  open  doorway.  For  a  moment  she  remained 
quite  motionless,  her  clenched  hands  pressed  against 
her  breast;  and  then,  unseen  by  Mohr  or  the  girl, 
she  swung  about  and  vanished  into  the  night. 

Mohr  had  disappeared  through  the  door  leading 
to  the  stage,  but  in  a  few  moments  he  returned  carry- 
ing a  dress-suit  case.  With  his  free  hand  he  clasped 
Dolly  by  the  arm,  and  they  started  hurriedly  up  the 
aisle. 

254 


SIDE-TRACKED 

"This,  I  think,"  said  Werden,  "is  where  we  get 
busy." 

To  the  intense  surprise  of  the  runaways,  Hyde 
and  Werden  appeared  suddenly  from  the  blackness 
of  the  rear  of  the  hall  and,  walking  out  into  the 
aisle,  effectively  blocked  the  way  to  the  door. 

Mohr  dropped  Dolly's  arm  and  walked  up  to 
within  a  few  feet  of  where  they  stood. 

"Well,"  he  asked,  smiling,  "who  are  you?" 

"It  doesn't  really  make  much  difference  who  we 
are,"  Werden  said,  "except  that  we  happen  to  be 
friends  of  Miss  Larrabee's  father,  and  we  are  going 
to  see  that  you  don't  harm  his  daughter." 

Max  Mohr  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  aloud. 
"That's  -funny,"  he  cried ;  "that's  what  I  call  funny. 
Get  out  of  my  way,  you  boobs." 

It  was  probably  the  imperturbability  of  the  two 
young  men  before  him  that  suddenly  made  the  actor 
lose  his  bravado  and  break  into  a  storm  of  rage. 
He  no  longer  laughed,  and  his  face  was  livid  with 
uncontrolled  passion. 

"Get  out  of  my  way,  I  tell  you,"  he  shouted,  and 
shook  his  clenched  fist  in  Werden's  face.  "Get  out 
of  my  way,  or  I'll — I'll  kill  you." 

Werden  looked  down  calmly  at  the  little,  trem- 
255 


SIDE-TRACKED 

bling  figure  before  him,  and  smiled  pleasantly  into 
the  boy's  flashing  eyes.  "You're  getting  excited, 
Mohr,"  he  said.  "Let's  take  it  easy  and  talk  it  over. 
We're  not  a  couple  of  boobs  or  rubes  either,  that 
you're  up  against.  We  come  from  the  big  city,  too, 
although  probably  from  a  different  district.  I  know 
you  and  your  kind,  lots  of  them,  and  I  knew  you'd 
get  the  best  of  a  girl  like  this  and  then  throw  her 
away  with  as  little  feeling  as  you  would  an  old  shoe. 
You  may  be  pretty  good  in  this  line  of  work,  but 
you're  not  going  to  get  away  with  it  this  time,  be- 
lieve me." 

There  was  another  sudden  change  in  Mohr's  vola- 
tile manner,  and  his  sharp,  ferret-like  eyes  looked 
curiously  into  those  of  the  two  men  before  him. 

He  drove  his  clenched  fist  into  the  open  palm  of 
his  other  hand,  and,  turning  sharply  on  his  heel, 
walked  slowly  down  the  aisle. 

The  girl's  slight  figure  sank  on  a  neighboring 
bench  and,  resting  her  arms  on  the  back  of  it,  she 
buried  her  head  in  them,  and  they  could  see  her  frail 
shoulders  shaking  with  sobs.  In  a  few  moments 
Mohr  came  back  and,  going  over  to  where  Dolly  sat, 
he  touched  her  very  gently  on  the  shoulder. 

"It's  all  right,  little  girl,"  he  said.    "You  see,  it'll 
256 


SIDE-TRACKED 

all  come  right."  Then  he  returned  once  more  to 
face  Werden  and  Hyde.  He  was  quite  calm  now, 
his  voice  low,  even  pleasant,  and  the  former  insolence 
of  his  manner  had  changed  to  that  of  the  petitioner. 

"I'm  in  wrong,"  he  began,  "I  can  see  that.  You've 
got  me  all  right.  But  it's  just  possible  you  don't 
understand.  As  you  say,  you  two  ain't  no  rubes. 
You're  wise  all  right,  and  I  guess  you're  hep  to  me 
and  my  kind.  But  just  this  once  you're  wrong.  I've 
turned  some  dirty  tricks  in  my  time,  but,  say,  I  never 
knew  a  girl  like  this  before.  You  understand — well, 
the  others  were  different.  Stella,  now,  when  I  first 
met  her,  she  was  way  up  in  vaudeville,  and  I  pulled 
her  down  to  the  moving  picture  game,  but,  Lord, 
Stella  wasnpt  no  Dolly.  I  know  I  was  a  wharf  rat, 
and  for  years  I  run  with  the  Eastman  gang,  and  I 
done  my  bit — a  year  and  eight  months  at  Sing  Sing. 
Yes,  I  did,  but  Dolly  knows  that,  'cause  I  told  her 
myself.  But,  gentlemen,  can't  a  man  come  back? 
Just  because  he  done  time,  ain't  he  goin'  to  ever  get 
the  chance  to  make  good?  I'm  a  lot  better  than 
this  ten-a-day.  I  can  get  into  big  time  if  I  once 
get  the  start,  and  Dolly,  she'd  go  up  with  me.  My 
God,  aren't  you  goin'  to  give  me  half  a  chance?" 

"What's  the  idea?"  Werden  asked. 
257 


SIDE-TRACKED 

Suddenly  a  wonderful  change  came  into  the  boy's 
face.  His  eyes  fairly  glistened,  his  whole  manner 
became  alert,  and  when  he  spoke  again  it  was  with 
great  rapidity  and  eagerness. 

"It's  like  this,"  he  ran  on.  "The  southbound 
train  gets  here  just  before  the  Eastern  express. 
Dolly  and  I  are  to  cross  the  tracks  and  get  on  the 
first  car  of  the  southbound  just  as  she  is  pulling  out. 
They  believe  I'm  going  North,  and'll  never  get  wise 
to  our  taking  the  other  train.  We'll  be  in  Cincinnati 
to-morrow,  and  then  we'll  get  married.  I  got  friends 
there,  and  we'll  lay  off  for  a  week,  and  then  I'm 
back  to  work,  and  good  work  on  the  big  time.  Do 
you'se  get  me?" 

From  a  great  distance  there  came  to  those  in  the 
little  hall  the  long,  low  whistle  of  the  approaching 
train. 

Mohr  sprang  toward  Werden,  and  tugged  nerv- 
ously at  his  coat-sleeve. 

"That's  her,"  he  whispered,  "that's  the  south- 
bound. You're  goin'  to  let  us  go,  ain't  you?" 

He  rushed  over  to  where  Dolly  sat,  and,  shaking 
her  roughly  by  the  shoulder,  clasped  her  by  the  wrist 
and  dragged  her  back  to  the  aisle,  where  Hyde  and 
Werden  still  blocked  the  way. 

258 


SIDE-TRACKED 

"Let  us  by,  won't  you?"  the  boy  whimpered,  "we 
ain't  got  no  time  to  waste.  It's  now  or  never  with 
us." 

But  the  two  men  in  the  aisle  did  not  move. 

"Why  not  ask  her  old  man?"  Werden  said. 

"Ask  old  Larrabee?"  Mohr  shouted.  "You're 
crazy.  He'd  rather  see  her  dead." 

As  he  saw  his  chance  slipping  from  him,  the  boy 
once  more  lost  his  servile,  cringing  ways,  and,  with 
his  arms  raised  above  his  head,  he  shook  his  fists  in 
a  storm  of  impotent  rage.  His  voice,  now  gone  far 
beyond  his  control,  had  become  but  a  series  of  shrill 
cries  and  wild,  inarticulate  oaths.  In  terror  the  girl 
stood  trembling  behind  him,  her  hands  resting  on  his 
shoulders. 

"Let  us  by,"  he  shouted,  "damn  you  two — '  And 
then  of  a  sudden  his  cries  died  away,  his  arms 
dropped  to  his  side,  and  his  eyes  shifted  from  the 
men  to  the  open  doorway  of  the  hall.  For  a  moment 
there  was  silence  among  them,  because  all  four  knew 
what  had  happened.  Through  the  still  night  air 
they  heard  the  patter  of  many  hurrying  footsteps 
and  the  distant  cries  of  the  approaching  mob. 

"Somebody's  told,"  Mohr  cried.  "They're  after 
us.  Now  will  you  get  out  of  the  way?'? 

259 


SIDE-TRACKED 

Werden  stepped  aside. 

"You're  too  late,  Mohr,"  he  said.  "I  wouldn't 
try  it  if  I  were  you.  You'd  better  stay  here  and 
take  a  chance." 

But  the  Pole  grabbed  Dolly  by  the  hand,  and  to- 
gether they  dashed  through  the  open  door. 

As  the  crowd  caught  sight  of  the  couple  it  gave 
a  great  cry  of  triumph  and  started  after  them  with 
redoubled  speed.  Their  hands  still  clasped,  Mohr 
and  the  girl  cast  one  glance  back  at  the  oncoming 
crowd,  and  then  started  up  the  steep  road  toward 
the  old  bridge,  which  was  the  only  way  of  escape  left 
open  to  them. 

As  Werden  and  Hyde  came  out  of  the  hall,  they 
saw  the  angry,  yelling  crowd  sweep  by  them.  At 
the  end  of  the  straggling  mob  they  recognized  old 
Larrabee  stumbling  along  the  rough  road,  trying  to 
keep  up  with  the  others,  and  cursing  Mohr  at  every 
step.  At  his  side  was  Estelle  La  Rue,  helping  the 
old  man  on  his  way  as  best  she  could.  The  only 
woman  in  the  crowd,  she  seemed  to  stand  out  quite 
apart  from  the  others.  The  brilliant  moonlight, 
which  a  moment  before  had  bathed  the  whole  land- 
scape, seemed  now  to  concentrate  its  white  rays  with 
all  the  force  of  a  spotlight  on  the  tall,  sinuous  form 

260 


SIDE-TRACKED 

of  the  woman.  The  masses  of  red  hair  had  broken 
loose  and  fell  about  her  shoulders,  and  her  big,  shin- 
ing eyes  looked  neither  to  the  left  nor  to  the  right, 
but  always  straight  ahead  at  the  two  dark  figures 
flying  up  the  hill  before  her. 

"Come  on,  Phil,"  cried  Werden,  "let's  see  the 
finish,"  and  the  two  Northerners  hurried  on  in  the 
wake  of  the  mob. 

Had  Mohr  been  alone,  it  is  possible  that  he  might 
have  made  good  his  escape,  but  just  at  the  entrance 
to  the  old  bridge,  at  the  very  top  of  the  hill,  Dolly 
stumbled  and  fell  to  her  knees.  Even  then  escape  was 
perhaps  possible  to  the  man,  but  he  stopped  and, 
bending  over  the  girl,  gently  raised  her  to  her  feet. 
The  leaders  had  come  up  to  the  runaways  by  now 
and,  with  his  arms  about  her  shoulders,  Mohr  looked 
calmly  into  the  eyes  of  the  threatening  crowd.  They 
stood  just  at  the  edge  of  the  bridge,  so  that  the 
moonlight  fell  full  on  the  pale,  scared  face  of  the 
girl  and  the  hard,  ugly  features  of  the  Pole.  The 
cheap  bravado  that  he  had  learned  among  the  crim- 
inal playmates  of  his  youth  had  returned  to  him, 
and  there  was  a  smile  in  his  black  eyes,  and  his  lips 
curled  into  an  ugly  sneer  as  he  looked  into  the  flushed, 
angry  faces  of  the  men  about  him.  Perhaps  it  was 

261 


SIDE-TRACKED 

the  pity  they  felt  for  Larrabee's  girl,  whom  they  all 
had  known  since  she  was  a  child,  or  perhaps  it  was 
something  in  the  brazen  attitude  of  the  man,  but  for 
one  reason  or  another  the  leaderless  mob  remained 
silent.  The  stragglers  had  all  come  up  by  now,  and 
gradually  the  crowd  spread  out  and  formed  a  com- 
plete circle,  several  rows  deep,  about  the  couple,  thus 
cutting  off  all  possible  escape.  Mohr  took  his  arm 
from  about  Dolly's  shoulders  and,  gently  pushing 
her  back  of  him,  swung  slowly  toward  that  half-circle 
of  the  mob  standing  in  the  sombre  shadows  of  the 
covered  bridge.  The  boy  still  stood  in  the  white  glare 
of  the  moonlight,  but  the  men  he  faced  were  as  well 
protected  by  the  darkness  as  if  they  had  been  con- 
cealed behind  a  barrier. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "what  are  you  going  to  do  about 
it?" 

The  answer  came  from  somewhere  in  the  closely 
huddled  mass  of  dark  figures  facing  him.  There  was 
the  sharp  bark  of  a  revolver,  a  blinding  blaze  of  light, 
and  the  little  figure  of  the  boy  in  the  centre  of  the 
group  crumpled  slowly  up  and  slid  through  Dolly's 
nerveless  arms  to  the  dusty  road.  The  girl  rested 
her  lover's  head  on  her  knee ;  with  one  hand  she  held 
his  hot  face  closely  against  her  breast,  and  with  the 

262 


SIDE-TRACKED 

other  she  gently  pressed  the  skirt  of  her  white  dress 
against  a  dark  spot  on  his  shirt.  The  little  crowd 
about  the  two  runaways  remained  quite  silent  and 
motionless.  Her  face  drawn  and  white  as  the  moon- 
light, the  girl  looked  slowly  about  at  the  circle  of 
dark  figures  before  her,  and  then  she  turned  back 
to  her  sweetheart. 

"Who  was  it  that  shot  you?"  she  asked.  "Tell 
me,  won't  you,  Max?" 

Mohr  looked  at  her,  smiled,  and  then  closed  his 
eyes  and  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  whispered.  "Honest  to  God, 
Dolly,  I  don't  know  who  he  was.  He  was  a  stranger. 
I  never  seen  him  before." 

Old  man  Larrabee  pushed  his  way  through  the 
crowd  and  shuffled  slowly  out  from  the  shadows  of 
the  bridge  into  the  moonlit  road.  For  a  moment  he 
looked  steadfastly  into  the  now  open  eyes  of  the 
actor. 

"I  shot  you,"  he  shouted,  "you  mutt,  you  city 
pup !  I  shot  you,  and  you  know  I  shot  you." 

As  if  by  way  of  protest,  Mohr  slowly  shook  his 
head  and  once  more  closed  his  eyes.  "All  right," 
he  mumbled,  "that's  all  right.  Have  it  your  own 


way." 


263 


SIDE-TRACKED 

Four  of  the  men  picked  up  the  boy  and  started 
to  carry  him  down  the  hill.  Dolly  walked  at  his 
side,  holding  his  hand,  and  the  crowd  straggled  slowly 
after  them. 

Hyde  looked  about  for  Werden,  but  could  not 
find  him.  In  the  distance  he  saw  the  train  which 
was  to  take  them  North,  slowly  backing  down  the 
siding.  There  were  but  a  few  minutes  to  spare,  and 
so  he  left  the  crowd  and,  running  down  the  bank, 
started  along  the  yards  toward  the  car  which  he 
had  left  an  hour  before.  On  the  rear  platform  he 
found  Werden  waiting  for  him. 

"Have  you  got  a  flask  in  your  bag?"  he  asked. 
"The  events  of  the  evening  have  given  me  quite  a 
thirst.  Besides,  I  think  it  would  be  just  as  well  for 
us  to  lock  ourselves  up  in  our  stateroom  until  we 
get  away  from  here.  I'm  not  very  keen  about  being 
called  as  a  witness." 

"All  right,"  Werden  said,  "our  new  stateroom 
will  be  ready  in  a  few  minutes.  The  porter  is  making 
it  up  now." 

"Our  new  stateroom?"  Hyde  asked.  "What's  the 
matter  with  the  old  one?" 

"Estelle  La  Rue  has  that." 

"Estelle  who?"  Hyde  asked. 
264 


SIDE-TRACKED 

"Estelle  Le  Rue — Beauty — La  Rue  of  Mohr  and 
La  Rue.  I'm  giving  her  a  trip  to  New  York." 

There  was  a  sudden  jolting  of  the  cars,  the  grat- 
ing sound  of  the  coupling  of  air-brakes,  and  the 
train  moved  slowly  forward. 

"Why?"  asked  Hyde. 

"Why?"  repeated  Werden.  "Because  she  shot 
Mohr." 

Hyde  pressed  his  lips  into  a  straight  line,  and 
looked  back  at  the  moonlit  hill  and  the  little  body 
of  men  carrying  their  human  burden  slowly  down 
the  road  toward  the  town. 

"Are  you  sure?"  he  asked. 

Werden  nodded.  "Quite.  When  Larrabee  was 
telling  how  he  did  it,  I  stumbled  on  to  La  Rue  hiding 
behind  a  girder  with  a  smoking  revolver  in  her  hand. 
Then  I  raced  her  over  the  bridge,  down  the  bank  on 
the  other  side,  and  locked  her  up  for  the  night  in 
our  stateroom." 

"That's  all  right  for  La  Rue,"  said  Hyde,  "but 
how  about  old  Larrabee?  Why  did  he  say  he  did 
it?" 

Werden  smiled.  "That's  easy.  In  the  first  place, 
he's  a  Southern  gentleman — he  told  us  so  himself. 
He  also  knows  that  no  jury  in  this  State  would  con- 

265 


SIDE-TRACKED 

vict  a  father  for  protecting  his  daughter;  and,  be- 
sides, you  forget  that  he  thought  La  Rue  was  the 
most  beautiful  woman  he  had  ever  seen.  Men  always 
seem  to  be  doing  foolish  things  for  beautiful  women. 
Even  you  and  I  are  taking  a  bit  of  a  chance  for  one 
just  now." 

The  train  crawled  slowly  along  past  the  dirty 
roads  of  now  darkened  shops  and  fruit-stands  and 
"Larrabee's  Place";  stopped  for  a  moment  at  the 
station  and,  then,  as  if  thoroughly  tired  of  Clifton 
Junction,  gave  a  snort  from  its  engine  and  hurried 
on  its  way  to  the  North. 


266 


THE  MEN  WHO  WOULD    "DIE" 
FOR  HER 

JEANNE  NORRIS  threw  off  her  dripping  rain- 
coat in  the  hallway  and  came  into  the  dimly  lighted 
drawing-room  tugging  slowly  at  her  wet  gloves. 
Under  the  orange  glow  of  a  heavily  shaded  lamp 
in  the  corner,  her  husband  was  reading  some  im- 
portant-looking legal  papers,  but  at  the  sound  of  the 
rustle  of  his  wife's  dress  he  glanced  up,  nodded,  and 
again  turned  his  attention  to  the  papers.  Mrs. 
Norris  crossed  the  room  and,  with  her  hands  clasped 
behind  her,  stood  before  the  broad  stone  hearth.  For 
a  few  minutes,  save  for  the  ticking  of  the  high  clock 
in  the  corner  and  the  crackling  of  the  logs  in  the 
fireplace,  there  was  a  complete  silence,  and,  then, 
with  a  sigh,  half  of  weariness,  half  of  irritation, 
Norris  let  the  papers  he  had  been  reading  fall  to  the 
floor. 

"Did  your  walk  in  the  rain  do  you  any  good?"  he 
asked. 

Mrs.  Norris  shook  her  head  slightly  and,  even  in 
the  soft,  dimmed  lights  of  the  room,  her  husband 

267 


THE   MEN   WHO   WOULD   "DIE"   FOR   HER 

could  see  her  pale,  sensitive  lips  barely  waver  into 
a  smile — a  smile,  however,  wholly  without  mirth. 
"Not  much  good,"  she  said.  "I  should  have  to  take 
a  very,  very  long  walk  to  do  that,  and  it  would 
have  to  be  all  in  one  direction.'* 

Norris  put  his  hands  before  him,  pa!m  to  palm, 
and  slowly  joined  the  tips  of  his  long,  tapering 
fingers.  "And  what  would  the  direction  be?"  he 
asked. 

His  young,  pretty  wife  looked  at  him,  and  again 
her  lips  broke  into  the  same  mirthless  smile.  "Oh, 
any  old  way,"  she  said,  "so  long  as  it  led  away  from 
all  this." 

"From  all  this?"  he  repeated  slowly. 

"Yes,  from  this  room  'and  this  house  and — 
and " 

"Go  on,  please,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  very  well,  I'll  go  on.     And  you." 

Norris's  keen,  intelligent  eyes  wandered  from  the 
straight,  lithe  figure  at  the  fireplace  to  his  finger 
tips,  and  then  to  the  ceiling,  and  then  back  to  the 
eyes  of  his  wife,  which  were  now  steadily  fixed  upon 
him.  When  he  spoke  his  voice  was  low  and  not  with- 
out sympathy.  "I  suspected,  indeed  I  knew,  that 
you  haven't  been  very  happy  of  late,  Jeanne,  but  I 

268 


THE  MEN   WHO   WOULD   "DIE"   FOR  HER 

had  no  idea  it  was  as  bad  as  all  that.  You're  quite 
sure  it  isn't  the  rotten  weather  we've  been  having 
lately,  or  that  you  aren't  feeling  very  fit  ?" 

Still  looking  him  fairly  in  the  eyes  Mrs.  Norris 
shook  her  head.  "No,  it  isn't  the  weather,  bad  as 
it  is,  and  I  never  felt  better  in  my  life — never.  I'm 
just  tired  of  the  whole  game.  I'm  twenty-five  and 
I'd  like  to  be  treated  as  if  I  were  twenty-five,  not 
as  if  I  were  a  piece  of  furniture  or  the  oldest  living 
inhabitant  and  a  great-grandmother  of  sixty  chil- 
dren. Why,  honestly,  David,  I've  seen  you  look  at 
a  bronze  or  one  of  your  old  ceramics  with  a  lot  more 
affection  than  you  have  looked  at  me  for  the  last 
year  or  so,  a  lot  more.  I  suppose  I'm  too  young  or 
you're  too  old.  I  don't  know." 

Norris  bit  his  thin,  pale  lip  and  once  more  his 
glance  travelled  swiftly  about  the  room.  "You  knew 
the  difference  in  our  ages  when  I  married  you,"  he 
said  calmly  enough.  "Surely  there  was  no  attempt 
at  deception  about  that,  or  about  anything  else  for 
that  matter.  Haven't  I  given  you  everything  you 
wanted,  or  certainly  everything  you  asked  for?" 

"Everything,"  she  said,  "everything  that  money 
could  buy.  Everything  except  the  love  and  affection 
and  the  little  foolish  attentions  that  a  woman  craves 

269 


THE  MEN  WHO  WOULD   "DIE"   FOR   HER 

from  her  husband.  You  work  downtown  all  day  and 
you  work  here  all  evening — that  is,  you  do  when  you 
don't  go  to  your  club." 

Norris  started  to  speak,  but,  suddenly  giving  way 
to  her  increasing  anger,  Jeanne  raised  her  hand  to 
stop  him.  "I  know  what  you're  going  to  say,"  she 
threw  at  him.  "You're  going  to  say  that  you  have 
to  work  as  hard  as  you  do  to  buy  me  dresses  and 
new  cars  and  to  make  enough  money  to  run  this  very 
beautiful  and  expensive  home  for  me.  Well,  I  could 
get  along  with  fewer  dresses  and  fewer  cars  and  fewer 
servants  if  I  had  a  little  more  attention  or  affection 
or  whatever  you  choose  to  call  it.  I'm  just  tired  of 
it  all." 

"Have  you  thought  of  a  remedy?"  Norris  asked. 

Jeanne  drew  herself  to  her  full  height  and  folded 
her  arms  across  her  breast.  "No,"  she  said,  "there 
is  no  remedy.  It  was  my  own  fault.  I  knew  per- 
fectly well  the  man  I  was  marrying.  You  had  things 
and  could  do  things  for  me  in  a  worldly  way  that 
the  other  men  who  wanted  to  marry  me  couldn't. 
I  appreciated  all  that  at  the  time,  and  my  mother 
did,  and  I  suppose  you  did,  too.  I  was  just  an  am- 
bitious, ill-advised  little  fool  who  got  her  values 
mixed.  I'd  always  heard  that  love  between  married 

270 


THE   MEN  WHO  WOULD   "DIE"   FOR  HER 

people  died  out  in  a  short  time,  anyhow,  and  that 
when  a  girl  did  wake  up  from  her  rosy  dreams  it  was 
better  to  find  herself  married  to  a  man  who  could 
give  her  limousines  than  to  a  man  who  couldn't.  I 
don't  believe  that  now,  but  I  did  then.  It's  all  my 
fault.  I'm  blackguarding  myself,  not  you.  Nobody 
knows  better  than  I  do  that  I  made  my  own  bed,  and 
I'm  willing  to  go  ahead  and  lie  in  it;  but  you  must 
allow  me  to  toss  about  a  bit  once  in  a  while." 

Norris  smiled  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "All 
right,  Jeanne,"  he  said,  "toss  about  as  much  as  you 
like.  But,  to  be  quite  fair,  how  do  you  know  that 
you  would  have  found  this  perfect  love  with  any  of 
the  men  who  wanted  to  marry  you?  I  don't  think 
you  mentioned  the  number,  did  you?" 

"No,  I  didn't,"  Jeanne  shot  at  him,  "but  I  can. 
There  were  four;  four  perfectly  good  suitors,  all 
reputable  young  men,  and  most  of  them  what  you 
and  my  mother,  for  instance,  would  call  fairly  eli- 
gible; and  they  were  all  very  much  in  love  with 
me." 

"I  suppose  so,"  David  said  a  little  wearily.  "And 
I  suppose  that  when  you  refused  them  they  were  all 
broken-hearted  and  their  lives  were  ruined  entirely. 
And  I  suppose  it  is  equally  true  that  they  all  told 

271 


THE   MEN   WHO   WOULD   "DIE"   FOR  HER 

you  so  and  said  if  you  ever  needed  a  friend  that  they 
were  always  at  your  command  and  would  do  any- 
thing in  this  world  to  serve  you." 

"They  did,"  Jeanne  snapped;  "all  of  them." 

"Well,"  asked  her  husband,  "were  their  lives 
ruined?  Has  any  of  the  four  died  of  a  broken  heart, 
or,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  have  you  ever  had  cause  to 
call  on  one  of  them  to  make  good  his  promise  to  do 
anything  you  asked  of  him?" 

"No,  you're  quite  right,"  Jeanne  said.  "That  is, 
I  haven't  until  now." 

Norris  got  up  and  crossed  the  room  near  to  where 
his  wife  stood,  sat  on  the  arm  of  a  big  leather  chair, 
and  laced  his  hands  over  his  knee.  "Now,  Jeanne," 
he  said,  "just  try  to  be  fair.  Do  you  believe  for  one 
moment  that  you  are  anything  in  the  lives  of  any 
one  of  those  four  men?  Do  you  believe  that  any  one 
of  them  is  still  under  your  control  in  the  slightest 
degree?  Do  you  honestly  think  that  if  you  were 
to  call  on  any  one  of  them  to  make  a  real  sacrifice 
for  you  he  would  do  it?  Because  I  don't." 

Mrs.  Norris  drew  her  lips  into  a  straight,  hard 
line  and  the  blood  rushed  to  her  delicate  pink-and- 
white  face.  "I  do,"  she  said.  "I  most  assuredly 
do.  All  men  aren't  like  you,  David.  There's  a  good 

272 


THE  MEN  WHO  WOULD   "DIE"   FOR  HER 

deal  of  chivalry  and  romance  left  yet  in  this  hard 
old  world." 

"But  be  reasonable,  my  dear,"  David  argued. 
"Those  men  must  have  proposed  to  you  at  least  five 
years  ago,  and  meantime  they  have  naturally  found 
other  interests.  I've  no  doubt  most  of  them  are 
married.  That  alone  would  prove  that  their  lives 
were  not  altogether  ruined,  and  it's  only  natural  to 
suppose  that  they  have  very  probably  passed  entirely 
beyond  your  influence.  Who  were  they  anyhow?" 

Jeanne  slowly  turned  her  back  on  her  husband  and 
stood  staring  into  the  fire  as  if  to  find  the  inspira- 
tion for  her  next  words  in  the  dancing  flames.  Sud- 
denly she  turned  and  faced  him.  "All  right,"  she 
said,  "I'll  tell  you  who  they  were;  and  1  believe  that 
every  one  of  them  would  to-day  do  anything  I  wanted 
of  him." 

"Anything?"  David  asked. 

"Anything,"  she  repeated  doggedly. 

"Suppose,"  Norris  said,  "mind  you,  I  said  'sup- 
pose,' you  asked  one  of  them  to  run  away  with  you?" 

Jeanne  smiled  up  at  the  ceiling.  "That's  funny," 
she  said.  "I  wondered  if  you  weren't  going  to  ask 
me  that.  Why,  of  course,  any  one  of  them  would. 
I'm  just  as  sure  of  that  as  I  am  sure  that  I  would 

273 


THE   MEN  WHO  WOULD   "DIE"   FOR   HER 

be  happier  with  any  of  the  four,  even  under  those 
criminal  conditions,  than  I  am  with  you." 

"Are  you  going  to  tell  me  who  they  are?"  Norris 
asked,  still  unruffled.  "I  suppose  I  could  make  a 
pretty  good  guess." 

"You  needn't  try  to  guess,"  Jeanne  said;  "I  told 
you  that  I  would  tell  you  their  names.  The  first 
man  who  ever  proposed  to  me  was  Mayhew  Mc- 
Cullough." 

Norris  folded  his  arms,  smiled  grimly  and  shook 
his  head.  "A.  Mayhew  McCullough!"  he  said. 
"Poor  old  A.  Mayhew!  Why,  Jeanne,  you  know 
that  he's  proposed  to  every  debutante  in  town  for 
the  last  twenty  years.  It's  just  a  habit  he  fell  into 
when  he  was  young.  He  never  could  break  himself 
of  it,  and  no  girl  was  brave  enough-  to  cure  him  of 
the  vice  by  marrying  him.  A.  Mayhew's  a  bad  start, 
Jeanne." 

Jeanne  herself  realized  that  she  had  made  an  un- 
propitious  beginning,  and,  besides  that,  she  resented 
extremely  her  husband's  placid  and  tolerant  manner. 
"Oh,  Mayhew's  not  so  bad,"  she  said;  "not  so  bad, 
believe  me." 

"Of  course  he's  not  bad,"  Norris  laughed.  "He's 
not  bad  at  all  at  a  tea.  He's  just  as  necessary  to 

274 


THE  MEN  WHO   WOULD   "DIE"   FOR   HER 

a  tea  as  the  pink  candleshades,  or  the  flowers  on  the 
piano,  or  the  teapot,  or  the  buttered  toast.  And  as 
a  cotillon  leader  he  shows  an  absolute  touch  of 
genius ;  but  he  does  propose  to  every  girl  before  she 
learns  that  a  man  who  leads  men  in  a  ballroom  sel- 
dom leads  them  in  war,  or  downtown,  or  wherever  the 
business  district  happens  to  be.  Do  you  believe, 
Jeanne,  that  A.  Mayhew  would  elope  with  any  woman 
that  ever  lived?  Why  his  mind  doesn't  extend  fur- 
ther than  the  four  corners  of  an  engraved  wedding 
invitation,  and  the  tint  of  his  ushers'  ties  would  mean 
more  to  him  than  the  honeymoon.  Next !" 

Jeanne's  delicate  face  flushed  scarlet  and  she  fur- 
ther showed  her  anger  in  a  sudden  tossing  of  her  chin 
in  the  general  direction  of  her  husband.  "The  second 
man  who  proposed  to  me,"  she  said,  trying  to  be 
calm,  "was  'Ned'  English." 

Norris  screwed  up  his  mouth  and  nodded  his  head 
in  approval.  "  'Ned's'  an  entirely  different  propo- 
sition— a  perfectly  eligible  parti.  Fat,  good  na- 
tured,  easily  led — that  is,  by  his  wife — and  guar- 
anteed not  to  kick  nor  bite  nor  interfere.  I  think 
you  should  probably  have  married  'Ned,'  but  you 
didn't.  You  made  the  mistake  and  it's  too  late  to 
rectify  it.  'Ned*  would  be  the  first  man  to  answer 

275 


THE   MEN   WHO  WOULD   "DIE"   FOR   HER 

your  call  for  help  and  the  last  one  to  elope  with 
you." 

"How  do  you  know  he  wouldn't  elope  with  me?" 
Jeanne  asked  hotly. 

Norris  swung  his  knee  between  his  hands  and  smiled 
up  at  her  cheerfully.  "How  do  I  know?  Because 
his  wife  won't  let  him.  Who  was  the  third  lovelorn 
swain  ?" 

For  a  moment  Jeanne  hesitated.  "I  don't  believe 
you'll  remember  him — Peter  Carter." 

Norris  looked  up  at  the  ceiling  and  crinkled  his 
eyebrows  as  if  deep  in  anxious  thought. 

"I'm  afraid  you've  got  me  there,  my  dear,"  he 
said ;  "I  don't  remember  Carter."  And  then  his  brow 
suddenly  unclouded  and  he  fairly  laughed  aloud. 
"Why,  of  course  I  do.  I  remember  Peter  Carter. 
He  was  a  particularly  unsuccessful  lawyer  with  a 
penchant  for  poetry  and  literature  on  the  side. 
Haven't  seen  or  heard  of  him  for  years.  Have  you  ?" 

Jeanne  nodded.  "Yes,  I've  seen  him  once  or 
twice  on  the  street,  but  not  to  speak  to.  I'm  afraid 
he  hasn't  done  very  well.  He  looked  sort  of  poor 
and  half-starved  and  generally  discouraged.  Rather 
made  a  point  of  avoiding  me.  Dear  old  Peter!  I 
think  he  was  about  the  finest  man  I  ever  knew." 

276 


THE  MEN   WHO   WOULD   "DIE"   FOR   HER 

"Then  if  he's  as  fine  as  all  that,"  David  inter- 
rupted, "you  may  be  sure  he's  too  fine  to  run  away 
with  another  man's  wife.  Who  was  the  fourth  poor 
soul  whose  life  you  ruined?" 

"  ThiP  Burnham.    I  know  you  know  'Phil.'  " 

"Rather,"  Norris  said.  "And  he's  the  last  man 
in  the  world  who  would  elope,  even  with  you." 

"Why?" 

"Why!  Because  he's  the  living  embodiment  of  all 
the  virtues  and  the  standard-bearer  of  every  tradi- 
tion known  to  man.  'Phil'  follows  conventions  as  a 
hound  follows  the  smell  of  a  fox.  He's  a  vestryman 
in  the  church,  and  a  leader  in  any  old  reform  move- 
ment that  comes  along,  social  and  political.  Why, 
'Phil'  is  the  only  real  amateur  patriot  I  know,  and 
he'd  run  from  scandal  as  a  rabbit  would  from  a  boy 
with  a  shotgun.  I'll  bet  he  laid  out  his  entire  career 
before  he  was  fifteen.  He's  nothing  but  a  human 
calendar.  The  fact  that  you  didn't  marry  him  was 
only  an  incident,  and  he  promptly  married  his  second 
choice  so  as  to  keep  up  to  his  schedule,  which  prob- 
ably called  for  a  marriage  at  that  particular  time. 
Am  I  right?  Didn't  'Phil'  marry  Lucy  very  soon 
after  he  had  proposed  to  you?" 

Jeanne  nodded.     "Yes,  in  about  six  months." 
277 


THE   MEN  WHO   WOULD   "DIE"   FOR  HER 

Morris  smiled.  "I  thought  so.  Besides,  'Phil' 
plays  bridge  with  me  regularly  every  Saturday 
afternoon  at  the  club,  and  a  man  doesn't  play 
bridge  with  a  man  one  day  and  run  away  with  his 
wife  the  next." 

By  way  of  answer  Jeanne  turned  wearily  toward 
the  fire.  "All  right,  David;  all  right,"  she  said; 
"you  have  all  their  names  now." 

"Well,"  said  Norris,  "now  that  you've  told  me 
who  they  were  do  you  still  think  you  have  any 
influence  with  any  of  them?  Why,  there's  not 
one  of  them  you  could  now  call  even  an  intimate 
friend." 

"No,"  Jeanne  admitted,  "you're  quite  right — not 
one  of  them  I  could  now  call  an  intimate  friend.  But 
do  you  think  that  that  would  make  me  lose  faith  in 
them?  There  are  very  few  women  who  see  much  of 
their  old  friends  after  their  marriage.  Wives  must 
of  necessity  put  up  with  their  husbands'  friends. 
'Phil*  is  the  only  one  of  those  men  you  know  at  all 
well,  and  you  generally  see  him  at  the  club.  He  only 
comes  here  when  Lucy  brings  him  to  a  dinner  or 
something." 

Norris  stood  up  and  tried  to  lay  his  hand  on  his 
wife's  arm,  but  she  moved  away.  "My,  but  you're 

278 


THE  MEN  WHO  WOULD  "DIE"   FOR  HER 

an  obstinate  child,"  he  said ;  "I  dare  you  to  put  any 
one  of  them  to  the  test." 

Jeanne's  eyes  flashed  with  injured  pride  and  indig- 
nation. "All  right,"  she  whispered;  "I'll  dare — all 
four  of  them." 

"You  mean,"  her  husband  asked,  "that  you  would 
voluntarily  dare  to  be  humiliated  by  four  different 
men?  That  you  would  dare  to  ask  them  to  this 
house  and  suggest  that  they  run  away  with  you?" 

Mrs.  Norris  smiled  pleasantly  into  her  husband's 
half-amused,  half- wondering  eyes.  "I  would,"  she 
said. 

"When?" 

"Any  time.     Now;  to-morrow." 

"Good!"  said  David.  "I  think  the  lesson  will  do 
you  a  lot  of  good  and  may  even  bring  you  to  your 
senses.  Ask  the  four  of  them  here  to-morrow,  mar- 
ried ones  and  all.  And,  furthermore,  I'll  make  you 
a  sporting  proposition — that  is,  I  will  on  one  con- 
dition." 

Jeanne  nodded.     "Go  on,"  she  said. 

"Well,  if  any  one  of  them  consents  to  elope  with 
you — and  remember  I  said  'consents,'  not  necessarily 
actually  elopes  with  you — I'll  give  you  ten  thousand 
dollars.  If  you  decide  not  to  go  ten  thousand  dollars 

279 


will  make  fine  pin-money  for  you.  If  you  do  decide 
to  leave  me  it  will  give  you  something  to  start  your 
new  life  on.  You'll  need  it." 

"And  the  condition?"  she  asked. 

"That  I  be  allowed  to  overhear  the  conversations 
between  you  and  these  men." 

"You  mean  that  you  want  to  be  present?" 

"Not  at  all.  I  should  have  to  be  concealed  in 
some  convenient  place  where  I  could  hear  just  what 
was  said." 

Jeanne  glanced  at  her  husband  with  a  look  of  ill- 
concealed  contempt  and  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "I 
wonder  if  there  is  another  man  in  the  world,"  she 
said,  "who  would  suggest  such  a  thing  to  his  wife. 
A  deliberate  eavesdropper,  eh?  Well,  I'm  going 
through  with  it  just  to  teach  you  a  lesson,  David, 
a  lesson  that  you  will  remember  all  of  your  life." 

"Good!"  said  Norris.  "It's  agreed  then — to-mor- 
row. And,  believe  me,  Jeanne,  it's  not  I  who  am  to 
get  the  unforgetable  lesson." 

On  the  afternoon  following,  just  as  the  clock 
struck  four,  the  doorbell  rang  and  A.  Mayhew 
McCullough  was  shown  into  the  Norrises'  drawing- 
room.  It  was  some  moments  before  the  sleek  and 

280 


THE  MEN  WHO  WOULD  "DIE"  FOR  HER 

dapper  little  man  of  something  past  middle  age  dis- 
covered Mrs.  Norris  sitting  in  a  corner  of  the  dimly 
lighted  room,  and  but  a  few  feet  distant  from  the 
heavy  curtains,  which  separated  the  drawing-room 
from  the  dining-room.  His  manner,  as  always,  was 
effusive  and,  with  much  enthusiasm,  he  expressed  his 
gratitude  for  this  unexpected  opportunity  for  a  cozy 
chat  with  his  old  friend.  Jeanne  had  always  been 
known  for  a  certain  fragile,  flower-like  beauty,  of 
which  her  five  years  of  married  life  had  robbed  her 
not  at  all,  and  she  had  seen  to  it  that  on  this  par- 
ticular occasion  she  had  never  looked  more  pretty 
nor  more  girlish. 

With  a  high-pitched,  unnatural  voice  her  visitor 
inquired "  eagerly  after  her  health  and  that  of  her 
husband.  "And  why  don't  we  see  you  about  more?" 
he  added.  "We  miss  you  terribly.  Why,  it  was  only 
the  other  night  I " 

Jeanne  pulled  herself  slightly  forward  in  her  chair 
and  there  was  something  in  her  look  and  manner  that 
caused  McCullough  suddenly  to  cease  his  chatter  and 
that  brought  a  kind  of  mild  terror  to  his  anaemic 
heart;  there  was  that  in  Jeanne's  eyes  that  seemed 
to  portend  nothing  short  of  tragedy.  Fairly  certain 
of  ultimate  failure  with  this,  the  first  of  her  four 

281 


THE  MEN  WHO  WOULD   "DIE"   FOR   HER 

lovers,  and  anxious  only  to  have  the  scene  over, 
Jeanne  deliberately  hurried  on  to  her  downfall. 
"Mayhew,"  she  began,  "because,  even  if  I  have  seen 
but  little  of  you  of  late,  you  will  always  be  Mayhew 
to  me,  I  am  in  trouble,  very  great  trouble." 

McCullough  glanced  at  Jeanne's  serious  eyes  and, 
then,  as  if  in  search  of  some  excuse  for  immediate 
flight,  quickly  about  the  room.  He  twisted  his  pearl- 
gray  gloves  between  his  well-cared-for  hands,  and 
uttered  a  startled  staccato  sigh. 

"You  once  told  me,"  Jeanne  hurried  on,  "that  you 
loved  me;  that  if  the  time  should  ever  come  when  I 
needed  your  help  I  could  depend  on  you;  that  any 
wish  I  might  make  would  not  only  be  a  command, 
but  a  blessing  to  you.  You  remember  that,  don't 
you,  Mayhew?" 

McCullough  tried  hard  to  say  that  he  did,  but  his 
throat  and  lips  were  parched  and  the  words  he  would 
have  uttered  ended  in  a  sort  of  a  clicking  sound. 
Jeanne  continued  with  breathless  haste:  "Now  the 
time  has  come  when  I  must  ask  you  to  make  good 
that  promise.  I'm  not  happy,  Mayhew.  I  want  to 
get  away." 

"Get  away?"  he  stammered. 

"Yes,  get  away;  get  away  from  all  this."  Her 
282 


THE  MEN  WHO   WOULD   "DIE"   FOR   HER 

eyes  swept  the  room  and  returned  to  gaze  stead- 
fastly into  those  of  the  now  terrified  McCullough. 
"I  must  leave  this  home  and  David.  I  want  to  begin 
life  over  again  and  with  the  man  I  should  have  mar- 
ried years  ago.  Will  you  take  me  away  with  you, 
May  hew?" 

The  very  awfulness  of  the  situation  seemed  to 
arouse  McCullough  to  a  certain  mental  activity,  and, 
at  least  in  part,  to  restore  his  power  of  speech.  "My 
position,"  he  began,  "is  most  difficult.  A  few  days 
ago,  even  last  Sunday,  I  was  free  to  do  anything 
you  asked." 

Jeanne's  pretty,  cupid-bow  lips  curled  into  a 
smile  of  disdain.  "Then  I  am  to  understand  that 
your  love  for  me  has  died  since  last  Sunday?" 

"Not  at  all,"  McCullough  stammered,  "but  last 
Monday  I  got  engaged." 

Jeanne  turned  a  withering  glance  on  her  visitor 
and  said  simply,  "Oh !"  but  the  one  word  was  fraught 
with  a  world  of  cynicism. 

"Not  exactly  engaged,"  the  poor  little  man  hur- 
ried on.  "I  only  proposed.  It  was  at  the  Boltons' 
dinner  Monday  night,  and  after  dinner  I  proposed 
to  Elsie  Bolton." 

"It  must  have  been  a  particularly  good  dinner," 
283 


THE  MEN  WHO  WOULD   "DIE"   FOR  HER 

Jeanne  answered  with  intolerable  scorn.  "If  I  re- 
member correctly  Elsie  is  the  very  small,  very  black 
Bolton  girl  with  the  slight  mustache  on  her  upper 
lip." 

With  a  few,  quick,  automatic  nods  McCullough 
admitted  the  truth  of  Jeanne's  description.  "She's 
a  debutante,"  he  said;  "Elsie's  only  eighteen."  His 
tone  was  apologetic,  and  his  words  were  evidently 
intended  to  give  the  impression  that  youth  was  Elsie's 
only  fault,  and  that,  no  doubt,  she  would  eventually 
outgrow  her  present  lack  of  good  looks. 

"And  she  accepted  your  proposal,  of  course?" 
Jeanne  asked  with  a  great  show  of  mock  gracious- 
ness. 

McCullough  drew  a  long  breath  and  shook  his 
head.  "Not  exactly,"  he  admitted.  "She's  to  let 
me  know  definitely  to-morrow  night  at  the  Bayards' 
dance  for  the  debutantes." 

Jeanne  slowly  got  up  from  her  chair  and,  draw- 
ing herself  to  her  full  height,  slightly  inclined  her 
head  in  the  direction  of  her  guest,  who,  at  this  first 
sign  that  the  interview  was  over,  fairly  sprang  to  his 
feet. 

"And  while  awaiting  your  answer  from  Miss 
Bolton,"  Jeanne  said  in  icy  tones,  "you  would 

284 


prefer  not  to   embark  on  any  other  affair  of  the 
heart?" 

McCullough  timidly  stretched  out  his  hand  and, 
with  frightened  eyes,  glanced  into  the  hard,  uncom- 
promising eyes  of  his  hostess.  "That's  it,"  he 
mumbled.  "It  wouldn't  be  exactly  fair  to  Elsie, 
would  it?" 

Jeanne  did  not  deign  to  take  the  outstretched  hand 
nor  to  answer  the  question,  but,  as  if  to  show  the 
interview  was  definitely  at  an  end,  once  more  she 
slightly  inclined  her  head,  this  time  in  the  general 
direction  of  the  door. 

Only  too  happy  to  be  free,  the  dapper  little  man 
somehow,  half  stumbling,  half  running,  made  an 
absurd  exit  from  the  room,  and  Jeanne  dropped 
back  into  her  chair. 

As  the  sound  of  the  closing  of  the  front  door 
reached  the  drawing-room  Norris  appeared  between 
the  curtains  which  led  to  the  dining-room.  He  was 
smiling  genially  and  just  about  to  light  a  cigar. 

"Don't  smoke,"  she  commanded.  "They'd  smell 
the  smoke." 

"All  right,  my  dear,"  David  said,  and  blew  out  the 
lighted  match.  "Who  comes  next?" 

"  'Ned'  English.     I  asked  him  at  four-thirty." 
285 


THE  MEN  WHO   WOULD  "DIE"  FOR  HER 

"Fine,"  David  laughed,  "and,  if  I  remember  the 
rest  of  the  programme  correctly,  Peter  Carter  is  to 
be  here  at  five,  and  'Phil'  at  half-past  five."  Still 
smiling,  Norris  looked  down  at  his  wife.  "Really, 
Jeanne,"  he  said,  "haven't  you  had  enough?  I'll 
give  you  the  ten  thousand  and  let's  call  it  off." 

But  Jeanne  only  tightened  her  lips  and  shook  her 
head.  "No,  David,"  she  said,  "I'm  going  through 
with  it  now.  There  are  three  more  of  them  left; 
you'll  get  your  lesson  yet." 

Just  as  Norris  was  about  to  answer  her  the  electric 
bell  of  the  front  door  rang  again,  and,  with  a  nod, 
David  disappeared  between  the  curtains. 

English  came  into  the  room,  smiling  and  cheerful, 
and  with  both  hands  stretched  out  toward  Jeanne, 
just  as  he  had  gone  through  life,  smiling  and  cheer- 
ful, and  with  both  hands  stretched  out  to  all  the 
world. 

"Hullo,  Jeanne!"  he  said.  "Haven't  seen  you  for 
an  age.  So  glad  you  rang  me  up.  What's  the  row?" 
Still  holding  her  hands  he  looked  into  her  troubled 
eyes.  "Why,  Jeanne,  dear,"  he  said,  "what  is  it? 
Don't  tell  me  that  you're  really  in  trouble — you  of 
all  people.  Why,  you  poor,  dear  kid,  tell  me  all 
about  it." 

286 


THE  MEN  WHO  WOULD   "DIE"   FOR  HER 

The  very  heartiness  and  sincerity  of  his  kindness 
made  Jeanne  more  nervous  than  she  had  been  before 
his  coming,  and  she  hurried  on  with  her  carefully 
prepared  speech.  "Five  years  ago,"  she  began,  "you 
promised  to  come  to  me  whenever  I  sent  for  you." 

"Well,  Jeanne,"  English  laughed,  "here  I  am." 

"You  promised,"  she  went  on,  "that  you  would  do 
anything  for  me  that  a  man  could  do  for  a  woman." 

"Did  I?"  her  guest  said,  screwing  up  his  mouth. 
"All  right;  I'll  take  your  word  for  it.  I  certainly 
would  do  a  lot  for  you.  What  is  it  you  want  me  to 
do,  anyhow?" 

"I've  had  trouble  with  David.  I'm  going  to  leave 
him.  I  want  to  go  to  some  country  where  I  will  never 
see  him  again  and  where  I  can  be  happy.  I'm  sorry 
that  the  idea  had  to  come  from  me,  but  I  want  you 
to  go  with  me.  Will  you  go  ?" 

English  wrinkled  his  forehead  and  looked  at  her  as 
if  he  were  not  at  all  sure  of  her  sanity.  "What  do 
you  mean?"  he  gasped.  "Elope;  run  away?" 

Jeanne  nodded.     "Yes,  elope;  run  away." 

Her  one-time  admirer  put  out  his  hand  and  laid 
it  gently  on  her  shoulder.  "I  certainly  will  not  run 
away  with  you,"  he  said.  "You  don't  know  what 
you're  saying,  Jeanne.  You  don't  want  a  change  of 

287 


THE   MEN   WHO  WOULD   "DIE"   FOR   HER 

husbands.  You  want  a  change  of  doctors.  Sit  down 
a  minute.  Let's  talk  it  over  calmly." 

Jeanne  sat  down  facing  the  fire.  "What's  the 
use  of  talking  it  over  calmly?"  she  said,  her  anger 
thoroughly  aroused.  "Why  don't  you  refuse  at 
once  and  let's  have  it  over?  It's  not  a  matter  to  talk 
over  calmly.  If  you  cared  for  me,  if  you  wanted  to 
be  true  to  your  promise,  you  wouldn't  want  to  talk 
it  over." 

"May  I  smoke?"  English  asked,  quite  unruffled. 

Jeanne  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "If  you  want  to," 
she  said.  "It's  so  like  a  man  to  want  to  smoke  at  a 
time  like  this.  Suppose  you  had  asked  me  to  run 
away  with  you  and  I  had  stopped  to  powder  my 
nose?" 

English  chuckled,  lighted  a  cigar  and  took  his 
stand  before  the  hearth,  and,  as  he  did  so,  Jeanne 
was  sure  she  heard  a  match  struck  just  behind  the 
portieres  where  her  husband  was  sitting. 

"The  trouble  is,  my  dear  Jeanne,"  he  began,  "that 
your  scheme  doesn't  work  out  right — never  has, 
never  will.  I'm  sorry  you're  not  happy  with  'Dave.5 
I  know  he's  a  bit  dry  and  a  rather  cold  proposition, 
but  really  he's  a  pretty  fair  husband  as  husbands  go 
nowadays.  But  even  if  he  were  worse,  a  whole  lot 

288 


worse,  there's  no  happiness  in  this  running  away  with 
some  other  woman's  husband.  I  suppose  you'd  like 
to  sail  away  to  some  land  of  orange  sunshine  and 
turquoise  skies  and  have  a  villa  perched  on  a  hill 
covered  with  groves  of  olive  trees.  Well,  there  are 
just  such  places,  and  there's  lots  of  people  have  tried 
them  under  exactly  the  conditions  you  are  suggesting 
now.  You  can  find  any  number  of  them  scattered 
all  along  the  Riviera ;  nice  little  cottages,  each  with 
a  husband  living  with  some  other  man's  wife.  At 
least  there  were  the  last  time  I  was  over  there,  and 
I'm  quite  sure  that  they're  there  yet  and  will  be  for 
years  to  come;  there's  no  other  place  for  them  to 
go.  Sometimes  they  take  a  little  trip  to  Paris,  or 
Florence,-  or  Venice,  and,  then,  when  they've  met  a 
few  of  their  old  friends  who  quite  properly  give  them 
a  good  snub,  they  sneak  back  to  the  little  cottage, 
which  in  their  hearts  they  loathe.  It's  not  a  pretty 
life." 

Jeanne  stared  into  the  fire  and  shook  her  head. 
"You  men  forget  so  quickly,"  she  said.  "You  con- 
jure up  any  old  picture  to  suit  your  argument  and 
your  convenience.  I  have  known  women  who  could 
be  happy  with  the  men  they  love  anywhere,  any 
place,  any  time,  always." 

289 


THE  MEN  WHO   WOULD   "DIE"   FOR  HER 

English  shook  his  head,  "No,  Jeanne,"  he  said, 
"you're  wrong ;  not  under  those  conditions.  Conven- 
tion is  probably  at  fault,  but  it's  quite  inexorable. 
It  may  be  a  fixed  game,  but  if  you  break  the  rules 
you're  thrown  out.  There  are  a  lot  of  things  a 
woman  can  do  that  are  forgiven  and  forgotten,  and 
there  are  more  that  a  man  can  do;  but  there  are 
certain  things  that  are  never  forgotten  nor  forgiven. 
For  instance,  a  man  can't  cheat  at  cards,  and  a  man 
or  a  woman  can't  run  away  with  another  man's  wife 
or  another  wife's  husband,  as  the  case  may  be,  and 
hope  to  get  away  with  it.  It's  one  of  those  things 
that  sticks  to  you  all  your  life,  and  when  you  die  it 
goes  on  living  after  you,  to  curse  your  children.  I 
tell  you,  Jeanne,  love  under  those  conditions  don't 
last.  The  mere  fact  that  they've  cut  themselves  off 
from  the  rest  of  the  world  is  bound  to  make  a  man 
and  a  woman  hate  each  other.  They're  prisoners, 
prisoners  for  life;  and  the  worst  of  it  is  that  they 
have  imposed  their  own  sentence — a  few  days,  or 
weeks,  or  perhaps  months  of  happiness,  and  then  an 
endless  stretch  of  years  of  exile,  outcasts,  just  exist- 
ing together,  friendless,  childless.  They  devote  the 
best  part  of  their  lives  to  getting  back,  but  did  you 
ever  know  the  case  of  a  woman  who  got  back?  I 

290 


THE   MEN  WHO  WOULD   "DIE"   FOR  HER 

never  did.  No,  Jeanne,  it  does  not  work  out.  Try 
the  more  respectable  method  of  going  back  to  visit 
your  mother  for  a  while,  and  if  that  won't  do,  and 
you  find  you  don't  want  to  go  back  to  your  husband, 
get  a  divorce  or  a  separation.  But  don't  try  to  beat 
out  tradition,  because  it  never  lost  a  fight  yet."  He 
tossed  his  cigar  into  the  fire.  "Good-by,  Jeanne," 
he  said,  "and  don't  be  foolish.  Think  it  over,  and 
the  next  time  we  meet  we'll  have  a  good  laugh  over 
it."  He  pulled  out  his  watch,  glanced  at  it  and 
shoved  it  back  into  his  pocket.  "It's  very  late !  I've 
got  to  be  getting  back  to  the  Missus  and  the  kids. 
Give  my  regards  to  'Dave,'  won't  you?" 

Jeanne  got  up  and  held  out  her  hand.  "No," 
she  said -smiling,  "I  won't  promise  to  do  that.  Good- 
by.  You  used  to  be  a  very  amusing  person, 
Ned,  but  I  fear  married  life  has  dulled  your  sense  of 
humor.  Don't  get  too  soggy  and  prosaic,  will  you? 
And  just  try  to  remember  that  there  are  other  things 
in  the  world  besides  toasted  slippers  and  a  dressing- 
gown." 

"I  promise."  English  laughed  and  shook  her  hand 
warmly.  He  crossed  the  room,  but  at  the  doorway 
turned  back  to  her.  "Thank  you,  Jeanne,  for  the 
compliment  you've  paid  me  anyhow.  I  appreciate 

291 


THE  MEN  WHO   WOULD   "DIE"   FOR   HER 

it  greatly.  I'm  only  sorry  I  can't  tell  my  wife.  I 
haven't  been  able  to  make  her  jealous  for  years." 

"That's  all  right,"  Jeanne  said,  "but  the  next  time 
a  girl  asks  you  to  elope  just  stay  away  from  her. 
It's  a  poor  time  for  sermons  and  I  don't  think  you're 
a  very  good  preacher.  Good-by." 

Once  more  she  turned  toward  the  dining-room  and 
saw  the  curtains  opened  just  far  enough  to  give  her 
a  momentary  glance  at  the  face  of  her  husband,  a 
glimpse  sufficient  to  show  that  his  face  wore  a  grin 
of  satisfaction  and  of  triumph. 

As  the  clock  in  the  drawing-room  chimed  out  the 
hour  of  five,  Peter  Carter,  the  third  of  her  former 
suitors,  was  ushered  into  Jeanne's  presence.  He 
was  a  tall,  spare  young  man,  with  prematurely  gray 
hair,  and  his  white,  bloodless  face  was  heavy  with 
shadows  and  deep  lines.  Even  in  the  dim  light 
Jeanne  could  see  that  his  clothes  were  of  another  day 
and  much  worn,  and  that  his  linen,  although  clean, 
was  badly  frayed.  The  old,  young  man  bowed  low 
over  her  proffered  hand,  and,  then,  for  some  mo- 
ments, stood  looking  into  her  pretty  eyes. 

"Five  years,"  he  said.  "That's  a  long  time  with 
some  of  us,  but  I  think — indeed,  I  know — that  you 
are  younger  and  prettier  than  ever.  You  won't 

292 


THE   MEN   WHO  WOULD   "DIE"   FOR  HER 

mind  me  saying  that,  because,  you  see,  I  have  grown 
into  an  old  man  while  you  are  still  only  a  girl." 

Jeanne  went  back  to  her  chair  before  the  hearth 
and  the  visitor  sat  on  the  far  side  of  a  table,  a  few 
feet  distant. 

"I  have  not  seen  you,  Mrs.  Norris,"  he  went  on, 
"for  five  years,  and  after  that  time  you  send  for  me. 
When  I  got  your  message  I  hoped,  impossible  as  it 
may  seem,  that  I  might  be  of  some  slight  service  to 
you."  He  glanced  across  the  table  at  her  and  smiled 
a  boyish,  friendly  smile,  but  it  was  quite  lost  on 
Jeanne  as  she  was  still  staring  into  the  fire.  "Do 
you  remember — ?"  he  went  on.  "But  then  of  course 
you  wouldn't.  Why  should  you?'* 

Jeanne-  glanced  up  and  saw  that  her  visitor  was 
blushing  and  regarding  her  with  much  confusion. 

"Go  on,"  she  said,  "please." 

"I  was  going  to  ask  you,"  Carter  continued,  "if 
you  have  forgotten  a  promise  I  made  you.  It  was 
just  after  I  had  asked  you  to  marry  me,  and — and 
when  you  had  refused  I  said  that  if  I  could  ever  be 
of  service  to  you  I  would  come  to  you  from  any 
distance.  And  you — you  see,  you  were  very  young 
then — took  my  hand  and  asked  me  to  make  that 
promise,  and  I  made  the  promise.  I  remember  that 

293 


THE  MEN  WHO   WOULD   "DIE"   FOR   HER 

so  well  because — well,  because  it  was  the  last  time 
that  we  ever  met.     You  don't  remember,  do  you?" 

"Yes,"  Jeanne  whispered,  "I  remember.  It  was 
because  of  that  promise  that  I  sent  for  you." 

Carter  bowed  his  head.  "I  wish,"  he  said,  "I  only 
wish  you  knew  how  grateful,  how  very  grateful  I 
am.  But,  Mrs.  Norris,  to  be  quite  frank,  I  know  of 
no  one  so  poor  who  could  or  would  turn  to  me." 

"I'm  so  sorry,  Peter,"  she  said.  "You  mean  that 
things  have  not  gone  very  well  with  you?" 

Carter  glanced  across  the  table  at  the  sympathetic, 
pretty  eyes,  and  his  thin,  pale  lips  broke  into  the 
semblance  of  a  smile.  "No,"  he  said,  "I  haven't 
been  very  successful.  I  haven't  been  successful  at 
all.  Since  I  failed  to  win  you  the  word  'success'  has 
had  no  place  in  my  career.  Only  the  other  day  I 
came  across  some  verses  I  wrote  years  ago  about  a 
youth,  whom  I  compared  to  a  battleship  steaming  out 
on  life's  seas  to  fight  the  world,  and  I'm  afraid  I 
always  rather  pictured  myself  as  the  youth."  Carter 
turned  his  eyes  from  Jeanne  and  stared  into  the  fire- 
place. "A  battleship!"  he  went  on.  "Why,  I'm  no 
better  than  a  derelict.  A  police-court  lawyer  and 
a  hack  writer  for  the  'movies'  and  the  dime-novel 
publishers." 

294 


THE   MEN  WHO  WOULD   "DIE"   FOR   HER 

He  got  up  and  stood  before  the  hearth  and  clasped 
his  hands  behind  his  back.  And,  then,  after  a  few 
moments  of  silence,  he  suddenly  seemed  to  pull  him- 
self together  and  he  threw  back  his  narrow  shoulders. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  went  on,  "I  didn't  come  here  to 
tell  you  about  my  troubles,  but  just  to  see  you 
again.  Your  voice  made  me  remember  the  old  days 
and  the  difference.  Please  tell  me  about  yourself; 
you  surely  have  no  troubles.  Such  a  wonderful 
home,  and  it  seems  as  if  I  were  always  reading  about 
your  husband's  success  and  his  celebrated  cases." 

Jeanne  nodded.  "Yes,  that  is  all  very  true.  David 
has  had  a  wonderful  success,  and  the  house,  I  sup- 
pose, is  everything  any  woman  could  desire  for  a 
home.  But,  Peter,  I'm  not  happy.  That's  what  I 
asked  you  here  to  tell  you.  I'm  not  happy — not 
happy  at  all,  Peter." 

Carter  looked  at  her  and  smiled  incredulously. 
"Not  happy?"  he  repeated.  "Just  what  do  you 
mean  ?" 

Jeanne  got  up  from  her  place  before  the  fire  and, 
walking  over  to  where  he  stood,  held  out  both  her 
hands  toward  him,  and  Peter  took  them  in  his  and 
held  them  tightly. 

"Go  on,"  he  said  and  his  tense  voice  scarcely  rose 
295 


THE   MEN  WHO   WOULD   "DIE"  FOR   HER 

above  a  whisper.  At  last  victory  seemed  within  her 
grasp  and  Jeanne  hurried  on  to  her  triumph  and  to 
her  husband's  downfall. 

"I'm  tired,"  she  said,  "oh,  so  tired,  Peter;  tired 
of  my  home  and  tired  of  him.  You,  yourself,  have 
reminded  me  of  your  promise.  I  asked  you  here  to 
make  good  that  promise.  I  want  you  to  take  me 
away." 

Carter  held  her  hands  close  and  gazed  steadily 
into  her  big,  innocent  eyes.  "Take  you  away?"  he 
said. 

"Yes,  Peter,"  she  whispered,  "that's  it;  take  me 
away  anywhere — anywhere  away  from  here,  any- 
where where  we  would  be  always  together.  You  are 
the  only  man  I  have  ever  loved.  I  didn't  know  that 
five  years  ago,  but  I  know  it  now.  And  it's  not  too 
late,  is  it,  Peter?  Don't  say  it's  too  late,  please!" 

Carter  suddenly  dropped  her  hands  and  clasped 
his  own  tightly  behind  his  back.  "Yes,  Jeanne,"  he 
said.  "I'm  sorry,  but  it's  too  late — just  five  years 
too  late." 

"But  your  promise?"  she  begged. 

"My  promise !  If  I  break  my  promise  to  you  I 
break  faith  with  but  one  woman.  If  I  keep  my 
promise  I  break  faith  with  myself — with  forty  years 

296 


of  upright  living.  I  break  faith  with  society,  and 
law  and  order,  and  everything  that  stands  for  de- 
cency and  high  living  and  honor.  I  am  poor  enough, 
God  only  knows;  poor  in  everything  except  my 
ideals,  but  I  am  still  rich  in  them.  The  standard- 
bearer  may  fall,  but  the  drummer  boy  or  the  water 
carrier  or  the  camp  follower  in  rags  may  carry  on 
the  colors.  It  makes  no  difference;  the  colors  are 
still  the  colors." 

With  lowered  head,  she  put  out  her  hand. 
"Good-by,  Peter,"  she  said.  "I  know  what  you 
mean.  I  understand;  you  were  always  like  that; 
good-by." 

Carter  bowed  low  over  the  girl's  outstretched 
hand,  so  low  that  his  lips  brushed  the  tips  of  her 
fingers.  "Good-by,"  he  whispered.  "I  shall  always 
remember  you." 

As  Peter  Carter  went  out  of  the  front  door  Philip 
Burnham  entered  it.  He  came  into  the  drawing- 
room,  smiling,  cheerful,  wonderfully  good-looking, 
and  greeted  Jeanne  as  if  he  had  left  her  only  a  few 
hours  before. 

"It's  good  to  see  you  again,  Jeanne,"  he  said. 
"It's  fine!"  He  moved  quickly  toward  her  and  held 
out  his  arms  as  if  he  were  about  to  embrace  her. 

297 


THE  MEN  WHO  WOULD   "DIE"   FOR   HER 

Jeanne,  rather  terrified  by  the  ardor  of  his  wooing, 
backed  away  from  him.  "Philip,"  she  said  quickly, 
"do  you  know  that  this  is  the  first  time  you  have 
been  in  my  home  for  months?" 

"I  do,"  Philip  said  crisply,  "and  for  a  very  good 
reason." 

"And  the  reason  is?" 

"Because  you  are  the  only  woman  I  ever  truly 
loved." 

Jeanne  sank  slowly  into  her  favorite  chair  before 
the  fireplace,  and  Burnham  stood  a  few  feet  away, 
staring  steadily  into  her  confused  eyes. 

"Why,  Philip!"  she  said;  "why  do  you  say  a 
thing  like  that  to  me?  That's  just  the  way  you 
used  to  talk  to  me  and  to  look  at  me  before  I  mar- 
ried David.  Are  you  really  never  going  to  grow 
up?" 

"I've  grown  up  all  right,"  Burnham  replied, 
laughing.  "There's  a  great  difference  between 
growing  up  and  outgrowing  your  love  for  a 
woman." 

"But,  Philip,"  Jeanne  insisted,  a  little  terrified, 
"you've  got  no  right  to  rush  in  here  and  make 
whirlwind  love  to  me  like  that.  I'm  a  married  woman 
now,  and  David  says  you  are  the  very  acme  of  all 

298 


THE   MEN  WHO  WOULD   "DIE"  FOR  HER 

that  is  respectable,  and  that  you're  quite  devoted  to 
your  wife  and  children." 

"I'm  sure  I'm  indebted  to  David  for  the  good  char- 
acter he  has  given  me,"  Philip  said  dryly,  "and  I've 
no  doubt  all  he  says  is  true.  It  certainly  is  true 
about  my  wife  and  children,  but  what's  that  got  to 
do  with  my  love  for  you?  Men  and  women  are 
supposed  to  marry  the  men  and  women  they  really 
love,  but  very  often  they  don't.  Surely  you  know 
that.  When  I  couldn't  marry  you  I  married  Lucy, 
because  I  liked  her  and  because  I  believed  that  it  is 
better  to  marry  a  second  choice  than  not  to  marry 
at  all.  I  didn't  love  Lucy  the  way  I  loved  you  any 
more  than  you  loved  David  the  way  I  loved  you  and 
still  lore  you.  Are  you  tired  of  him  yet?" 

"I  am,  very.     But  how  did  you  guess?" 

Philip  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Oh,  I  don't  know. 
It  always  seemed  as  if  it  had  to  happen,  and,  then, 
after  five  long  years,  when  you  sent  me  that  mysteri- 
ous message,  to  come  to  you  at  once,  I  guessed  some- 
thing was  up.  Instinct,  I  suppose.  What  are  you 
going  to  do  about  it  ?" 

"Leave  him,"  Jeanne  said.  "What  else  is  there 
for  me  to  do?" 

"Good!"  said  Burnham.  "You're  just  in  time. 
299 


THE   MEN   WHO  WOULD   "DIE"   FOR   HER 

Men  like  'Dave,'  who  think  of  nothing  but  money 
and  give  up  their  lives  to  work,  are  bound  to  snap 
all  of  a  sudden.  A  year  or  two  more  with  him  and 
you'll  be  wearing  a  nurse's  uniform  and  devoting 
your  life  to  measuring  out  teaspoonfuls  of  medicine 
and  counting  pulse  beats." 

Jeanne  glanced  up  at  the  strong,  eager  face  of  her 
visitor.  "Don't  you  think  that's  rather  unusual 
advice  from  a  law-abiding  citizen  and  a  model  hus- 
band and  father?" 

"No,"  said  Burnham,  "not  when  I'm  giving  it  to 
you.  Why,  Jeanne,  what  else  could  possibly  count 
against  my  love  for  you?  It's  just  you,  you,  you; 
that's  all  there  is  to  my  life — you." 

Jeanne  looked  squarely  into  Philip's  eyes.  "Do 
you  mean  that  you  still  love  me?" 

*'I  do,"  Philip  said.  "I  love  you  more  than  any 
man  ever  loved  any  woman.  That  has  been  said 
frequently  before,  but  not  by  a  man  who  has  gone 
on  loving  a  woman  for  five  years  after  her  marriage 
to  another  man;  and,  although  I  have  seldom  seen 
you  during  those  five  years,  I  have  loved  you  more 
and  more  every  minute  of  them.  When  you  leave 
David,  where  are  you  going?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Jeanne  said;  "that's  why  I 
300 


THE   MEN  WHO  WOULD   "DIE"   FOR   HER 

wanted  to  see  you.  I  was  in  trouble,  and  it  was 
natural,  after  all,  wasn't  it,  that  I  should  turn  to 
my  oldest  friend — the  man  who  was  once  my  best 
friend?  Will  you  take  me  away  with  you,  Philip?" 

"I  will,"  said  Philip. 

"When?" 

"Now." 

"How  about  your  wife  and  your  children  and  the 
splendid  position  you  have  made  for  yourself?" 

"I  love  you,"  Philip  said. 

"You  know,"  Jeanne  went  on,  her  victory  over 
her  husband  now  assured,  "that  to  run  away  with 
me  must  mean  your  finish,  your  everlasting  dis- 
grace. And  you  mustn't  forget  that  you  are  known 
as  a  friend  of  my  husband.  That  is  not  liable  to 
help  you  in  the  eyes  of  the  world." 

"I  forget  nothing,"  Burnham  said  passionately. 
"Jeanne,  I  tell  you  I  love  you  and  that  nothing  else 
counts.  Will  you  go  away  with  me  now?  Give  me 
just  one  hour  and  I  can  stand  all  the  disgrace  and 
hardship  that  can  come  to  any  man  for  the  rest  of 
his  life." 

"All  right,  'Phil,'  "  she  said.  "Will  you  wait  for 
me  here?  I'll  be  ready  to  go  in  a  few  minutes." 

Jeanne  started  to  leave  the  room,  but,  as  she  did 
301 


THE  MEN   WHO   WOULD   "DIE"   FOR   HER 

so,  she  heard  the  honk-honk  of  an  automobile  which 
evidently  had  stopped  before  the  house,  and  then, 
almost  immediately,  the  buzz  of  the  electric  bell  of 
the  front  door  sounded. 

Burnham  darted  toward  the  window,  and,  drawing 
aside  the  curtains,  looked  out  on  the  street.  With 
a  half-articulate  cry,  followed  by  a  muttered  oath, 
he  pulled  the  curtains  sharply  together  again. 
"Heavens,  Jeanne,"  he  whispered,  "it's  my  wife!" 

Jeanne  stood  as  silent,  and  white  and  motionless 
as  a  marble  statue. 

"What'll  we  do?"  Burnham  demanded.  "You 
must  hide  me.  Be  quick,  Jeanne!" 

But,  instead  of  making  an  effort  to  hide  her  ap- 
parently now  terrified  lover,  Jeanne  only  succeeded 
in  uttering  a  few  stifled  sobs  and  backing  slowly 
toward  the  dining-room  door.  "I  won't!"  she  suc- 
ceeded in  gasping  at  last.  "I  won't  hide  you!" 

"Good!"  cried  Philip;  "then  we'll  stand  together 
and  tell  her  all." 

He  moved  quickly  toward  Jeanne  who,  now,  almost 
helpless  from  fright,  had  just  enough  strength  left 
to  turn  and  half  run,  half  stumble,  toward  the  dining- 
room  curtains. 

Just  as  she  reached  them  young  Mrs.  Burnham, 
302 


THE  MEN  WHO  WOULD   "DIE"   FOR  HER 

smiling  and  radiant,  entered  the  doorway  leading 
from  the  front  hall.  If,  in  the  dim  light  of  the  draw- 
ing-room, she  was  at  all  conscious  of  Jeanne's  tragic 
face  she  certainly  did  not  show  it  in  her  manner. 

"Hullo,  Jeanne !"  she  said.  "How  are  you,  Philip? 
All  ready  for  the  trip  ?" 

"What  trip?"  Jeanne  gasped. 

"What  trip?"  Mrs.  Burnham  echoed.  "Why,  our 
trip,  or  rather  your  trip  to  Florida.  Don't  tell  me 
David  didn't  tell  you  about  it.  We  start  in  an 
hour." 

Before  Jeanne  could  answer  she  felt  her  husband's 
arm  placed  gently  about  her  shoulders.  "No,"  he 
said,  "I  didn't  tell  her.  I  wanted  it  to  be  a  surprise ; 
so  I  only  told  her  maid.  She'll  have  everything 
ready  on  time." 

Jeanne  looked  up  into  her  husband's  kindly  eyes. 
"Just  what  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"Well,"  David  said,  "after  our  chat  yesterday 
afternoon,  when  you  seemed  so  depressed  and  tired 
of  things  in  town,  I  had  a  long  talk  with  'Phil'  at  the 
club  and  we  arranged  for  his  visit  this  afternoon  to 
brighten  you  up  a  bit,  as  it  were,  and  then  for  Lucy 
to  join  us  all  here  later.  Now  I'm  going  to  forget 
business  and  we're  going  to  have  dinner  right  away, 

303 


THE   MEN  WHO  WOULD   "DIE"   FOR  HER 

and  after  dinner  we  four  start  for  Palm  Beach,  and 
a  month  of  orange  sunshine,  and  palm  trees  and 
purple  skies.  How  about  it?" 

For  answer  Jeanne  put  her  arm  through  David's, 
and,  with  wrinkled  brow,  looked  up  at  him  with 
tearful,  smiling  eyes. 


304 


HER  MAN 

ST.  JOHN  let  herself  into  the  flat,  and 
promptly  stumbled  over  the  hat-rack  which  pro- 
jected itself  far  across  the  dark  hallway. 

"Darn  those  set-pieces,"  she  swore  softly  to  her- 
self, and  then  cautiously  groped  her  way  down  the 
narrow  passage. 

Once  in  her  own  bedroom,  she  lit  the  single  gas 
jet,  tossed  her  sailor  hat  and  her  handsomely 
initialed  but  empty  reticule  on  the  bed,  tousled  her 
pretty  yellow  curls  before  the  mirror,  and  smiled 
with  pleasure  and  no  small  degree  of  satisfaction  at 
the  pretty  face  in  the  looking-glass.  Her  cheeks 
were  ruddy  and  her  big,  blue  eyes  glistened  after  her 
long  walk  from  the  theatre  through  a  series  of  May 
showers;  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Gretta  had  am- 
ple cause  to  smile  at  the  reflection  of  the  delicate, 
piquant  beauty  of  her  face  and  of  her  slender,  sup- 
ple, little  figure.  She  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed 
and  took  off  her  russet  shoes,  dark  and  soggy  from 

305 


HER    MAN 

the  rain  and  the  mud  of  the  streets,  and  then  care- 
fully felt  the  soles  of  her  feet. 

When  she  discovered  that  her  brown  cotton  stock- 
ings were  quite  dry,  there  was  just  a  shade  of  dis- 
appointment in  her  face,  and  she  glanced  tentatively 
at  a  pair  of  patent  leather  pumps  at  the  end  of  the 
bed.  For  a  moment  she  hesitated  and  then  mumbled, 
"Why  not?"  Quickly  she  went  over  to  the  bureau, 
opened  the  lower  drawer  and  took  out  a  pair  of 
neatly  folded  black  silk  stockings. 

"Why  not?"  she  once  more  argued  aloud  as  she 
returned  to  her  seat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and 
started  to  replace  the  cotton  stockings  with  the 
transparent  black  silk  ones.  "Why  not,  indeed!" 
Gretta  ran  on.  "It's  always  safer  to  change  your 
stockings,  anyhow,  and  then  these  are  so  very  much 
prettier,  and,  sad  to  say,  Gretta,  it  isn't  every  day 
that  you  have  a  'swell'  come  to  tea.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  you  never  had  a  real  swell  come  to  tea 
before!" 

At  last  the  silk  stockings  and  the  patent  leather 
pumps  had  been  placed  where  they  would  appear  to 
the  greatest  possible  advantage,  and  Gretta,  singing 
as  she  went,  hurried  down  the  hallway  to  Mrs.  Jessie 
King's  sitting-room.  Mrs.  King  was  in  the  kitchen, 

306 


HER   MAN 

just  beyond,  and,  so,  through  the  half-closed  door, 
Gretta  called  her  greetings  to  her,  and  then  looked 
about  the  little  sitting-room  at  the  preparations 
which  Jessie  had  made  for  the  tea-party.  There  was 
a  small  bunch  of  jonquils  in  the  vase  on  the  piano  and 
a  branch  of  apple  blossom  stuck  behind  "Scene  at  the 
Death-bed  of  President  Garfield,"  and  just  a  spray 
over  the  framed  copy  of  Kipling's  "Vampire."  The 
brown  plush  cover  with  its  appliqued  scarlet  roses 
that  usually  adorned  the  centre-table  had  been  re- 
placed by  a  white  cloth  which  fairly  shone  and 
crinkled  from  its  newness.  On  the  table  were  the  tea- 
things  and  a  chocolate  cake,  and  a  large  plate  for 
the  biscuit  that  Jessie  King  had  prepared  herself, 
and  which  she  was  to  bake  after  the  arrival  of  the 
distinguished  guest.  There  were  no  lengths  to  which 
Jessie  would  not  go  to  oblige  a  favorite  roomer,  and 
she  loved  Gretta  St.  John  almost  as  if  she  had  been 
her  own  daughter. 

"It  looks  fine,"  Gretta  called.  "The  cake's  a 
wonder  and  the  room  is  that  clean  and  nice.  It's 
beautiful,  Jessie." 

Gretta  was  quite  sincere  in  her  gratitude,  but  she 
did  not  really  think  that  this  hot,  stuffy  room  was 
beautiful.  She  had  always  instinctively  abhorred 

307 


HER    MAN 

Jessie  King's  beloved  collection  of  preposterous, 
grinning  billikins  as  she  had  always  hated  the 
flowered  piano  cover,  the  stiff  walnut  furniture  with 
its  plush  covering,  and  as  she  had  come  to  hate  every 
one  of  the  innumerable  photographs  of  Eugene 
Errolle  with  which  the  walls  were  entirely  draped  and 
which  stared  out  at  one  from  every  nook  and  cranny 
of  the  sitting-room.  There  were  pictures  of  Errolle 
in  a  morning  suit,  in  his  evening  clothes,  in  the  drab 
clothes  of  Hamlet,  in  the  hose  and  leather  doublet 
of  the  swashbuckler,  D'Artagnan,  in  the  flowing 
locks  and  graceful  mantle  of  Orlando — old  photo- 
graphs these,  taken  years  ago  when  Errolle  was  the 
justly  popular  leading  man  of  a  Louisville  stock 
company.  There  were  other  pictures  of  him  less 
faded  and  yellowed  by  age,  taken  after  his  hair  had 
begun  to  turn  gray  and  his  face  had  grown  heavy, 
after  his  shoulders  sagged  just  a  little  and  the  slim 
waist  and  the  piercing  look  of  the  black  eyes  had 
become  but  treasured  memories.  These  last  photo- 
graphs were  of  the  days  when  he  played  charac- 
ter parts  with  Melbourne's  Repertoire  Company 
through  the  Middle  West.  The  days  when  he  first 
met,  and  wooed  and  won  Jessie  King,  who  was  play- 
ing the  ingenue  roles  in  the  same  company. 

308 


HER    MAN 

On  this  particular  afternoon,  as  Mrs.  King  came 
into  the  sitting-room  carrying  a  highly  burnished, 
silver-plated  sugar-bowl  and  cream  pitcher,  no  one 
would  have  imagined  that  ten  years  before  she  had 
played  ingenues  and  had  played  them  well,  and 
looked  them  well,  too.  Now  her  figure  was  amply 
rounded,  even  plump,  and  her  bust  seemed  to  fill  her 
freshly  ironed  shirt-waist  to  overflowing,  and  her 
hips  to  strain  the  hooks  and  eyes  of  her  short  cloth 
skirt  to  the  bursting  point.  But  there  was  still  much 
beauty  in  the  blue,  placid  eyes,  in  the  soft  brown 
hair  parted  over  the  clear,  broad  forehead,  in  the 
pink  and  white  oval  cheeks  and  the  small,  sensitive, 
baby-like  mouth.  Not  a  suggestion  of  a  crow's  foot, 
nor  a  wrinkle,  nor  a  shadow  was  there  to  mar  the 
pretty,  always  smiling,  shining  round  face.  Jessie 
King  carried  her  troubles  in  her  big,  loving  heart, 
far  removed  from  the  sight  of  man  and  woman.  The 
best  friend  she  had  ever  had  never  learned  the 
tragedy  of  her  life  either  in  her  eyes  or  from  her 
lips.  But  if  Jessie  King  was  brave,  she  was  also  pos- 
sessed of  a  great  hope  and  an  infinite  faith.  Every 
night  she  let  her  stout,  unwieldy  body  drop  to  her 
stiffened  knees  and  asked  that  the  good  Lord  would 
send  her  husband  back  to  her,  and  every  night,  after 

309 


HER    MAN 

her  prayers  were  over,  with  a  smile  on  her  pretty 
lips,  she  went  to  sleep,  secure  in  the  belief  that  on  the 
morrow  her  prayers  would  be  answered. 

Jessie  set  the  sugar-bowl  and  the  cream  pitcher 
on  the  table  with  much  precision,  and,  with  her 
hands  resting  on  her  broad  hips,  regarded  the  gen- 
eral effect  with  a  face  fairly  beaming  with  pride  and 
satisfaction. 

"Gretta  dear,"  she  said,  "I  think  it  looks  fine — 
good  enough  for  any  swell.  Now,  I'll  put  that  dish 
for  the  biscuits  in  the  oven  and  we're  ready  for  him." 
She  turned  and  looked  at  Gretta  with  a  smile  brim- 
ful and  overflowing  with  love. 

"I  like  you  to  have  your  gentlemen  friends  come 
here  for  a  cup  of  tea,"  she  went  on.  "It's  so  much 
nicer  than  meeting  them  at  restaurants.  You  know 
what  I  mean — just  having  me  dodge  in  if  it's  only 
for  a  moment  shows  'em  you're  sort  of  looked  after 
and  protected,  and  that  you've  got  a  home." 

Gretta  walked  around  the  table  and  dropping  to 
her  knees,  rested  her  hands  on  Mrs.  King's  broad 
shoulders. 

"You  dear,  sweet,  old  thing,"  she  said.  "You 
bet  it's  good  to  have  a  home,  and  such  a  pretty 
home,  too." 

310 


HER    MAN 

The  door-bell  rang  shrilly  and  Mrs.  King  hurried 
into  the  kitchen.  Gretta  opened  the  front  door  for 
Mr.  William  Chauncey,  a  most  amusing  young  man, 
one  of  New  York's  predatory  rich,  who  divided  his 
hours  of  leisure  between  jeunes-filles  dances  and 
chorus-girl  suppers  and  was  equally  popular  at 
both. 

"Charming,"  exclaimed  Chauncey  as  he  glanced 
at  the  tea-table  and  then  at  the  overcrowded  little 
room,  "perfectly  charming — so  cozy  and  interest- 
ing." He  smiled  at  Gretta,  but  almost  at  once  his 
glance  strayed  back  to  the  gallery  of  photographs 
and  rested  on  a  large  picture  of  Errolle  as  Claude 
Mdnotte.  It  stood  on  the  upright  piano  nearby  and 
bore  the  actor's  autograph  written  in  a  large,  bold 
hand. 

"Pardon  me,  won't  you,  Miss  St.  John,"  Chaun- 
cey apologized,  "but  I  have  never  seen  so  many 
photographs  of  one  person  in  all  my  life.  Who  is 
Eugene  Errolle?" 

Gretta  shook  her  head  and  nodded  toward  the 
kitchen  door.  "Not  now,"  she  said,  "I'll  tell  you 
some  other  time." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  Chauncey  whispered,  "for- 
give me,  won't  you?" 

311 


HER    MAN 

Gretta  smiled  her  forgiveness,  and  then  she  and 
her  good-looking  young  visitor  sat  down  on  opposite 
sides  of  the  tea-table  and,  for  a  few  minutes,  talked 
of  the  last  supper  party  at  which  they  had  met,  and 
exchanged  the  latest  gossip  concerning  their  mutual 
friends  of  the  stage. 

"And  now,"  Gretta  announced,  "I'm  going  to 
introduce  you  to  my  friend  and  protector,  Mrs. 
King.  Also,  she  has  baked  some  hot  biscuits  for  you 
and  you  must  eat  them,  and  admire  them  inordi- 
nately. Do  you  understand?" 

"Perfectly,"  said  young  Chauncey,   "inordinate- 

ly." 

Mrs.  King  was  led  from  the  kitchen,  her  round, 
shiny  face  wreathed  in  smiles  and  blushes.  In  one 
hand  she  held  the  plate  of  biscuits  and  the  other  she 
stretched  out  in  welcome  toward  the  visitor.  She 
took  her  place  at  the  table  and  Gretta  helped  her 
to  a  cup  of  tea.  For  a  moment  conversation  seemed 
to  lag,  and,  then,  Chauncey,  recognizing  his  responsi- 
bility, started  in  to  do  his  best. 

"I've  just  been  telling  Miss  St.  John,"  he  began, 
"how  fortunate  she  is  to  have  so  charming  a  home, 
and  now  that  I've  met  her  hostess  I  find  that  she  is 
doubly  fortunate." 

312 


HER    MAN 

Jessie  King  blushed  a  brilliant  scarlet.  "It  is 
nice,"  she  said;  "at  least,  we  think  so.  I've  been  a 
long  time  getting  it  just  right.'* 

"So  many  interesting  things  you've  collected," 
Chauncey  suggested. 

"That's  right,"  Mrs.  King  admitted,  "especially 
if  you're  interested  in  stage  people.  I  suppose 
you've  noticed  my  photographs?" 

Chauncey  nodded  gravely.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "you 
have  some  very  fine  ones  of  Mr.  Eugene  Errolle." 

Whatever  thoughts  or  doubts  may  have  existed  in 
her  heart  and  in  her  mind,  Jessie  King  smiled  bravely 
and  looked  at  her  guest,  her  big  blue  eyes  shining 
with  a  marvellous  joy  and  pride. 

"Eugene  Errolle,"  she  said,  "is  a  great  actor,  and 
he's  my  man" 

Chauncey  hesitated,  groping  about  for  something 
to  say.  But  once  having  seen  the  light  in  the 
woman's  eyes  and  heard  her  speak  those  two  words, 
"my  man,"  which  held  all  the  meaning  of  a  won- 
derful caress,  he  found  that  any  phrase  of  which 
he  could  think  seemed  hopelessly  weak  and  wholly 
inadequate  to  the  situation.  And,  so,  in  the  presence 
of  so  big  a  thing  as  this  woman's  love,  he  remained 

313 


HER    MAN 

silent  and  acknowledged  her  words  with  a  low  bow 
which  told  her  that  he  understood. 

A  few  minutes  later  Mrs.  King  excused  herself, 
and  as  they  heard  the  door  close  behind  her,  Gretta 
settled  back  in  her  chair  and  nodded  her  assent  to 
Chauncey's  request  to  light  a  cigarette. 

"Eugene  Errolle,"  she  began,  "was  a  good  stock 
actor  of  the  old,  heroic  school,  and  when  Jessie  met 
him  he  was  playing  character  parts  in  the  same 
repertoire  company  in  which  she  was  the  ingenue. 
That  was  about  ten  years  ago  and  I  suppose  that 
she  was  thirty  and  he  was  forty-five  or  thereabouts. 
Anyhow,  she  fell  in  love  with  him  and  married  him, 
and  for  the  rest  of  the  season  they  were  apparently 
perfectly  happy.  Ideally  happy,  she  says.  And, 
then,  one  night,  just  before  the  season  closed,  he  left 
her.  They  had  both  signed  for  the  next  season  with 
the  same  troupe,  and  the  outlook  was  apparently 
just  as  good  and  bright  as  it  could  be." 

"He  didn't  leave  any  word,"  Chauncey  asked, 
"nothing  at  all?" 

"He  left  a  note  saying  that  he  had  unknowingly 
wronged  her  and  that  she  must  try  to  forgive  and 
then  forget  him." 

"Ana  then?"  Chauncey  said. 
314 


HER    MAN 

"Well,  she  forgave  him  all  right."  (Gretta 
glanced  about  the  room  at  the  gallery  of  photo- 
graphs.) "But  you  can  see  for  yourself  how  hard 
she  has  tried  to  forget  him.  This  place  is  a  regular 
shrine  to  Eugene  Errolle." 

"Why  does  she  call  herself  King,"  asked  the  young 
man,  "if  she's  so  proud  of  Errolle?" 

"King  was  her  name  before  her  marriage  and  she 
always  used  it  on  the  stage.  After  he  quit  her  she 
kept  it  on  in  the  hope  of  getting  a  job.  Then  she 
got  too  stout  to  be  an  ingenue,  and  came  on  here, 
and  took  to  keeping  roomers  and  getting  a  home 
ready  for  Errolle  when  he  wanted  to  come  back." 

For  a  few  moments  there  was  silence  while 
Chauncey  puffed  away  on  his  second  cigarette.  "But 
what  I  can't  understand,"  he  said  going  back  to 
Jessie's  story,  "is  how  a  fairly  well-known  actor 
could  lose  himself  so  completely,  that  is,  if  he  stayed 
on  the  stage." 

"He  lost  himself  for  nine  whole  years,"  Gretta 
said,  "and  then  about  a  year  ago  Jessie  read  in  The 
Mirror  that  he  was  playing  lead  in  a  melodrama  in 
some  one-night  stand  in  Nebraska.  Ever  since  then 
she  buys  The  Mirror  every  week,  as  soon  as  it  comes 
out,  and  reads  about  how  he  played  at  Painted  Post 

315 


HER    MAN 

or  Oil  Centre  and  that  business  was  good  and  Eugene 
Errolle  fine.  He  must  have  gotten  his  second  wind, 
somehow,  for  he  certainly  gets  corking  notices — that 
is,  from  those  water-tank  towns  that  he  plays." 

"And  she  never  tried  to  see  him?"  Chauncey 
asked. 

Gretta  shook  her  head.  "Nope.  It  seems  he  asked 
her  in  the  note  he  left  never  to  write  to  him  nor  try 
to  see  him  again." 

"And  she's  always  done  as  he  asked?" 
"As  if  it  were  a  command  from  Heaven." 
"What  a  brute,"  Chauncey  said,  "I'd  like  to  kick 
him  just  once  myself." 

"Sometimes,  I  feel  that  way,  too,"  said  Gretta, 
"and  then  again  I  don't  know  that  I  do.  I've  heard 
people  say  who  knew  them  when  they  were  together 
that  they  were  both  absolutely  happy  and  crazy  in 
love  with  each  other.  He  sends  her  money,  too,  and 
that's  in  his  favor.  That  is,"  Gretta  went  on, 
"somebody  sends  her  money.  It  comes  in  cash  and 
is  always  mailed  from  New  York,  so  I  suppose  he 
sends  it  through  a  friend  here.  Jessie  couldn't  live 
as  she  does  if  it  wasn't  for  that  and  she  spends  pretty 
much  everything  she  gets  in  fixing  up  the  place  so 
it'll  look  nice  when  he  comes  back  to  her.'* 

316 


Chauncey  got  up  and  looked  about  for  his  hat 
and  coat. 

"Her  man,"  he  said  smiling. 

It  was  on  the  Sunday  following  that  Jessie  King 
showed  Gretta  a  paragraph  in  The  Morning  Tele- 
graph announcing  the  appearance  of  the  favorite 
Western  actor,  Eugene  Errolle,  in  a  society  drama 
to  be  produced  the  next  night  at  a  Broadway 
theatre.  It  was  a  new  play  by  an  unknown  author, 
and  could  only  have  found  an  opening  in  New  York 
at  this  particular  season  when  most  of  the  theatres 
were  closed  for  lack  of  good  attractions.  After 
Jessie  had  pointed  out  the  notice  to  Gretta,  she  sat 
down  in  a  rocking  chair  and  rocked  slowly  back  and 
forth,  and,  with  wide-open  eyes,  looked  dully  into 
space. 

"Well,  Jessie,"  Gretta  said  when  she  had  read  the 
paragraph,  'are  you  going  to  the  theatre  to-morrow 
night  or  any  night?" 

Jessie  nodded.  "Yes,"  she  said  with  a  little  catch 
in  her  voice.  "You  see,  he  didn't  say  anything  in 
that  letter  that  would  mean  I  shouldn't  see  him  act. 
You're  not  working  now,  Gretta — don't  you  think 
you  could  go  with  me?  We'd  sit  well  back  where  he 

317 


HER    MAN 

couldn't  see  us.  I  wouldn't  like  to  go  alone,  some- 
how. It's  been  so  long,  dearie,  ten  years — ten  long 
years." 

Gretta  knelt  at  Jessie's  feet  and  put  her  arms 
about  the  older  woman's  waist.  "Why  yes,"  she 
said,  "of  course  I'll  go.  I  want  to  go." 

Monday  night  was  very  hot  and  close  and  the  two 
women,  dressed  in  their  best  shirt-waists  and  short 
cloth  skirts,  started  early  to  walk  to  the  theatre. 
Mrs.  King  bought  two  seats  far  back  in  the  or- 
chestra, and  then  they  went  into  the  hot,  stuffy 
theatre  and  waited  in  silence  for  what  seemed  to 
Gretta  the  longest  half-hour  that  she  had  ever 
known. 

"I  don't  think  I  can  stand  it,"  Jessie  whispered. 
"I  shouldn't  have  come.  I  was  a  fool  to  come." 

But  Gretta  soothed  her  as  well  as  she  could,  and 
then  the  orchestra  began  the  overture,  and  Jessie 
seemed  to  pull  herself  together,  and,  sitting  up  very 
straight  in  her  chair,  gazed  with  dry,  searching  eyes 
at  the  curtain,  waiting  for  the  moment  that  she  had 
looked  forward  to  for  ten  long  years. 

The  part  of  John  Eberly,  which  Errolle  was  to 
play,  was  that  of  a  successful  business  man,  the  hus- 
band of  a  young  wife.  That  Jessie  and  Gretta  knew 

318 


HER    MAN 

from  the  programme  and  the  opening  lines  of  the 
play,  but  there  was  no  indication  to  show  how  old  he 
was  supposed  to  be.  For  ten  minutes  the  play  ran 
its  course  and  then  a  speech  of  one  of  the  minor  char- 
acters announced  the  entrance  of  John  Eberly.  He 
came  on  the  stage,  smiling,  with  his  hands  out- 
stretched toward  his  young  and  pretty  wife.  The 
actor  was  good  to  look  upon,  graceful,  and  easy, 
and  very  young.  His  likeness  to  Jessie's  husband 
was  altogether  striking.  Even  Gretta  could  see  that, 
but  he  was  not  the  Eugene  Errolle  whom  Jessie  had 
married.  Gretta  felt  the  big,  strong  body  of  the 
woman  next  her  suddenly  relax,  and  she  put  out 
her  hand  and  clasped  Jessie's  hand  closely  in  her 
own. 

"That's  not  Errolle,"  Gretta  whispered,  "they've 
put  on  an  understudy."  She  glanced  quickly  at 
Jessie  and  found  that  the  older  woman's  eyes  had 
become  suddenly  dimmed  but  were  staring  with  a 
look  of  wonder  and  a  sort  of  fascination  at  the  young 
man  on  the  stage. 

"No,  Gretta,"  she  said,  "that's  not  an  understudy. 
That's  Eugene's  son." 

The  same  thought  had  come  to  Gretta,  but  she 
would  not  admit  it  even  to  herself. 

319 


HER    MAN 

"Errolle  had  no  son,"  Gretta  whispered.  "You 
know  he  had  no  son." 

The  older  woman  closed  her  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out 
the  glaring  lights  and  the  sight  of  the  man  on  the 
stage.  "No,  my  dear,"  she  said  very  gently,  "that's 
Eugene's  boy.  I  can  see  the  father  in  his  face.  I 
can  see  it  in  his  walk.  I  tell  you  I  can  see  it  in  his 
eyes.  God,  how  I  wish  I  hadn't  come !" 

Gretta  turned  back  to  the  stage,  and,  even  from 
the  photographs,  she  knew  that  Jessie  was  right. 
When  the  first  act  was  over,  the  two  women  instinc- 
tively and  without  a  word  got  up  and  went  slowly 
out.  They  followed  the  hot,  thirsty  crowd  of  men 
from  the  theatre  down  Broadway  until  they  came  to 
the  first  cross-street.  This  they  found  dark  and 
deserted,  and  they  turned  the  corner  and  half  way 
up  the  block  stopped  in  the  shadow  of  a  high  office 
building.  Jessie  pressed  her  chubby  hands  hard 
against  her  temples  and  closed  her  eyes. 

"That  was  an  awful  jolt  I  got,"  she  mumbled. 
"I'm  sorry  to  spoil  your  evening,  Gretta,  but  I  guess 
I'd  better  go  home." 

Gretta  put  her  arm  under  that  of  the  older 
woman  and  started  to  lead  her  toward  Broad- 
way. 

320 


HER   MAN 

"I  think  you're  right,"  she  said.  "You'd  much 
better  go  back  to  the  flat  and  lie  down." 

"I  don't  want  to  lie  down,"  Jessie  protested.  "I 
want  to  think — think  and  figure  out  what  it  all 
means.  It's  the  first  time  in  ten  years,  that  I've  felt 
real  discouraged — the  first  time.  You  go  back  to 
the  show,  dearie,  and  I'll  go  home  alone.  I  want  to 
be  alone  for  a  while,  if  you  don't  mind.  I'd  rather 
try  to  work  it  out  alone — it's  easier  that  way  some- 
times." 

Gretta  protested,  but  Jessie  insisted  that  it  was 
her  wish. 

"Go  back  to  the  show,  dear,"  she  said,  with  a 
feeble  effort  to  smile,  "go  back  and  see  it  out,  and 
when  it's  over  hurry  up  to  the  flat  and  tell  me  all 
about — about  Eugene's  son  and  if  he  made  a  hit. 
Good  God,  how  much  he  looks  like  his  father — and 
his  voice  was  just  the  same — just  exactly  the  same. 
Run  along,  dearie — but  hurry  back  when  it's  over." 

Gretta  watched  the  broad,  ungainly  figure  mov- 
ing slowly  away  from  her,  pushing  her  way  through 
the  sweltering  crowds  that  filled  the  sidewalks. 

"That's  a  pretty  sad  home-coming,"  she  said  lo 
herself,  "pretty  sad.  If  I  could  only  help — if  I 
only  could." 

321 


HER    MAN 

When  she  reached  the  theatre  again  the  curtain 
was  just  going  up  on  the  second  act,  and,  with  the 
exception  of  one  man,  the  lobby  was  deserted.  In- 
stinctively she  knew  that  he  was  the  manager  of  the 
company,  and,  going  straight  up  to  him,  she  excused 
herself  for  speaking  to  him,  and  at  once  started  in  on 
the  matter  in  hand. 

"This  Eugene  Errolle  who  is  playing  the  lead," 
she  asked,  "had  a  father  by  the  same  name,  hadn't 
he?  Was  in  the  business,  too,  wasn't  he?" 

By  her  words  as  well  as  by  her  dress  and  manner 
the  manager  knew  that  Gretta  was  in  one  way  or 
another  connected  with  the  stage,  so  he  smiled  at  her 
graciously  and  screwed  his  cigar  slowly  from  the  left 
to  the  right  side  of  his  mouth. 

"That's  right,"  he  said.  "The  old  man  sort  of 
went  to  the  bad  and  left  his  name  to  the  son.  Old 
man  Errolle  goes  by  the  name  of  Walter  Scannell 
now." 

"Do  you  know  where  he  is?"  Gretta  asked  with 
great  eagerness. 

"I  do,"  the  manager  laughed,  "but  I'm  afraid 
you  want  to  sue  him  for  breach  of  promise  or 
something." 

"Don't  guy,"  Gretta  begged,  "please  don't  guy. 
322 


HER    MAN 

Tell  me  where  he  is.     Please  tell  me — that  is,  if  you 
know." 

"It's  a  hard  luck  story,  kid,"  he  said,  "sure  a  hard 
luck  story.  He's  the  property  man  of  the  same 
troupe  his  son  is  featured  in — practically  starred 
in." 

Gretta's  eyes  flared  up  with  excitement  and  she 
plucked  nervously  at  the  manager's  sleeve. 

"You  mean  he  is  the  property  man  with  this 
show?" 

"Sure.  Eugene  got  him  the  job.  He's  the  prop- 
erty man  and  Eugene's  dresser  on  the  side.  That's 
what  he  is — his  own  son's  valet.  Sort  of  tough, 
eh,  little  one,  for  a  regular  fellow  who  was  once  a 
matinee  idol,  and  played  Armande  and  Orlando — 
pretty  tough,  eh?" 

Gretta  looked  up  at  the  manager  and  nodded. 

"That's  right,"  she  said,  "you  bet  it's  pretty 
tough.  Show  business  is  a  hard  game,  any  way  you 
play  it.  Good-night,  and  much  obliged." 

She  walked  from  the  lobby  into  the  street.  It 
was  very  hot  and  the  crowd  jostled  her  and  con- 
fused her  and  she  wanted  so  hard  to  be  alone  and 
to  think.  Somehow  it  seemed  as  if  fate  had  put  it 
into  her  young  hands  to  repay  all  that  Jessie  King 

323 


HER    MAN 

had  done  for  her.     "If  I  only  could,"  she  repeated 
over  and  over  again,  "if  I  only  could.'* 

But  however  great  her  desire  to  help  the  woman 
who  had  been  as  a  mother  to  her,  she  knew  that 
her  task  was  not  an  easy  one,  and  that  one  false 
step  now  might  prove  fatal  to  Jessie's  happiness. 
She  turned  up  the  first  side  street,  and,  free  from 
the  crowd,  walked  slowly  up  and  down,  her  head 
bowed  and  her  hands  clasped  tightly  behind  her.  At 
last  the  thoughts  that  crowded  and  confused  her 
excited  brain  seemed  to  straighten  out  and  her  mind 
was  clear  again.  The  simplest  plan  was  the  best 
plan,  after  all.  The  decision  once  made,  she  turned 
back  toward  the  theatre.  With  dimmed,  misty  eyes 
she  looked  on  at  the  remainder  of  the  play.  She 
saw  the  people  on  the  stage  and  heard  them  speak- 
ing, but  she  was  quite  unconscious  of  what  they  said. 
She  heard  the  people  about  her  in  the  audience  whis- 
pering to  one  another  during  the  play,  and  chatting 
aloud  between  the  acts,  and,  at  other  times,  she  heard 
them  applaud,  but  her  mind  was  filled  with  thoughts 
of  Jessie — her  dear  Jessie  sitting  alone  in  the  flat, 
her  last  hope  gone,  and,  then,  of  the  property-man 
behind  the  scenes  of  whom  she  had  heard  so  much, 
but  never  seen. 

324 


HER    MAN 

When  the  curtain  had  fallen  on  the  last  act,  she 
went  slowly  out  and  took  up  her  stand  at  the  stage 
door.  One  by  one,  or  in  little  groups,  she  watched 
the  actors  come  out  and  hurry  away  with  friends, 
all  of  them  smiling  and  laughing  over  the  success  of 
the  play.  At  last,  when  she  had  begun  to  fear  that 
she  had  not  recognized  Jessie's  husband,  that  he  had 
gone  away,  and  that  her  quest  had  failed,  she  saw 
him  come  out  of  the  door,  and,  for  a  moment,  hesitate 
as  if  uncertain  which  way  he  should  turn.  To  Gretta, 
he  looked  many,  many  years  older  than  he  did  in  the 
photographs.  His  hair  was  quite  white,  his  shoul- 
ders stooped,  the  former  virile,  athletic  figure  was 
now  almost  gaunt  and  the  spirit  had  gone  out  of  his 
eyes  entirely.  Gretta  approached  him  timidly  and 
looked  up  into  the  drawn,  gray  face. 

"Isn't  your  name  Eugene  Errolle?"  she  asked. 
He  looked  at  her  and  shook  his  head. 
"Mr.  Errolle,"  he  said,  "I  think  must  have  gone 
by  this  time.     I'm  sorry." 

But  Gretta  stood  stolidly  before  him  and  looked 
squarely  into  the  tired,  motionless  eyes. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  explained,  "awfully  sorry,  and 
I  don't  want  to  be  rude,  indeed,  I  don't,  but  weren't 
you  once  known  as  Eugene  Errolle?" 

325 


HER   MAN 

"Yes,"  he  said  quite  simply,  "but  that  was  a  long 
time  ago.  Why  do  you  ask?" 

"I  come  from  a  friend,"  Gretta  said. 

"A  friend,"  he  repeated.  "I'm  afraid  there  must 
be  some  mistake.  I  have  no  friends." 

"Yes,"  Gretta  said,  "one  friend — a  very  old 
friend,  who  loves  you  better  than  her  own  life — 
Jessie." 

"Jessie,"  he  repeated,  and,  turning  his  eyes  from 
Gretta,  looked  up  at  the  deep  purple  sky  set  with 
its  myriads  of  steadfast,  crystal  stars. 

"I  want  to  take  you  to  her,"  Gretta  urged,  "now, 
right  away.  Please  let  me  take  you  to  her." 

He  turned  his  eyes  back  to  Gretta,  and,  under 
heavy,  gray  brows,  blinked  at  her  uncertainly. 

"Better  come  home,"  she  whispered.  "She's  been 
waiting  a  long  time." 

"I  could  go  home  now?"  he  queried.  "Are  you 
sure  she  wants  me?" 

Gretta  put  out  her  hand  and  taking  his  gently 
in  her  own  started  to  lead  him  slowly  away  from 
the  stage  door. 

"Wants  you?"  she  said.  "She's  never  had  a 
thought  except  of  you  since  the  day  you  left  her." 

326 


HER   MAN 

He  looked  at  her,  and,  by  his  eyes,  Gretta  could  see 
that  his  mind  was  confused  and  stunned. 

"I  can  tell  you  about  that,"  he  said.  "I  mean 
about  leaving  her." 

"Not  me,"  Gretta  laughed.  "But  you  can  tell 
her." 

In  almost  complete  silence,  they  walked  slowly  to 
Jessie's  home,  and,  when  Gretta  had  opened  the  door 
to  the  flat,  she  led  him  down  the  hallway  to  the  sit- 
ting-room. Jessie  was  sitting  at  the  table,  her  head 
buried  in  her  arms. 

"Jessie,"  Gretta  whispered,  and,  before  the  older 
woman  could  raise  her  head,  the  girl  tiptoed  out  of 
the  room  and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

When  Jessie  saw  him  she  gave  a  low  cry,  and,  run- 
ning to  him,  put  her  head  on  his  shoulder  and  sobbed 
out  the  happiness  that  overflowed  from  her  big,  child- 
like heart.  After  a  time  he  led  her  gently  to  a  chair 
and  begged  her  to  be  seated.  It  was  the  first  word 
that  either  of  them  had  spoken. 

He  stood  before  the  empty  hearth  with  his  hands 
clasped  behind  his  back,  and  leaned  against  the  man- 
tel-shelf which  was  adorned  with  many  photographs 
of  Eugene  Errolle  when  the  actor  was  more  a 

327 


HER   MAN 

woman's  ideal  of  a  man  and  much  less  a  human 
wreck. 

"Jessie,"  he  began,  "I  must  first  tell  you  some- 
thing." 

"About  your  son?"  she  interrupted  him,  and  her 
round,  tear-stained  face  blazed  scarlet. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "and  about  her.  The  day  I  left 
you,  you  may  remember,  I  went  for  a  walk  and  late 
in  the  afternoon  I  dropped  in  at  a  theatre.  It  was 
one  of  those  cheap  burlesque  houses.  They  gave  me 
a  seat  in  a  box,  almost  on  the  stage.  The  first  thing 
I  saw  was  a  young  man,  not  much  more  than  a  boy 
— but  he  was  so  like  what  I  had  been  when  I  was 
young  that  I  wanted  to  cry  out.  And  then  his 
mother  came  on  the  stage,  and  I  understood.  I  had 
married  her  almost  twenty  years  before.  We  were 
very  unhappy  and  she  left  me  a  few  months  after 
our  marriage.  I  had  never  heard  that  she  had  a  son, 
and  several  years  after  we  separated  I  understood 
that  she  had  died.  Then  I  met  you  and  married  you, 
and  wronged  you  as  much  as  any  man  can  wrong  a 
woman.  As  soon  as  she  saw  me,  I  knew  that  our 
days,  I  mean  your  days  and  my  days,  of  happiness 
were  over.  She  sent  word  by  the  manager  to  meet 
her  after  the  show.  I  went  back  on  the  stage  and 

328 


HER    MAN 

found  her  and  the  boy  waiting  for  me.  She  had 
grown  old,  and  was  terribly  painted,  and  she  had 
sunk  very  low  on  the  stage  and  off  of  it,  and  the 
boy,  as  I  soon  learned,  was  following  in  her  foot- 
steps. She  told  me  that  she  was  tired  of  fighting 
alone  and  that  the  time  had  come  when  she  was  going 
to  claim  her  rights.  I  could  have  divorced  her  easily, 
but,  after  all,  you  must  understand,  Jessie,  that  she 
was  my  wife,  and  the  mother  of  my  son." 

Jessie,  who  was  following  Errolle's  words  with 
dry,  wide-open  eyes,  nodded  her  assent. 

"And  then?"  she  asked. 

"Then  I  went  with  her.  I  changed  my  name,  and, 
a  year  later,  when  I  had  got  my  boy  a  position  in 
a  decent  company,  I  gave  my  name  to  him.  So  far 
as  my  work  went  I  sunk  to  her  level  and  worse.  For 
years  I  played  in  cheap,  rotten  burlesque  shows. 
The  only  satisfaction  I  had  was  when  I  made  enough 
money  to  send  you  something.  For  the  last  ten 
years  I  have  lived  in  a  kind  of  hell.  There  was  no 
love  between  us,  my  position  was  gone,  the  work  I 
was  forced  to  do  was  an  insult  against  decency,  and 
I  could  no  longer  hold  up  my  head  or  look  honest 
men  and  honest  women  in  the  face.  The  only  hap- 
piness I  knew  was  to  send  you  the  little  money  I 

329 


HER    MAN 

could  save  from  my  wages,  and,  from  a  great  dis- 
tance, watch  my  son  succeed  in  his  profession  and 
bring  back  the  name  of  Eugene  Errolle  to  the  place 
it  once  held.  That's  about  all.  It  isn't  a  pretty 
story.  Just  a  month  ago,  before  my  boy  started 
East  for  his  first  real  chance,  his  mother  died,  and 
I  joined  him.  They  took  me  on  as  property-man 
and  I  dress  my  son  Eugene.  He  didn't  want  me  to 
work  because  he  loves  me,  but  I  liked  it  better — to  be 
making  my  own  living." 

Errolle  pressed  his  hand  over  his  eyes  as  if  to 
shut  out  the  memory  of  those  last  ten  years.  Then 
his  arm  dropped  impotently  to  his  side  and  he  looked 
at  the  woman  at  the  table  and  tried  to  force  a  smile 
to  his  white,  drawn  lips. 

"Well,  Jessie,"  he  said,  "I  guess  that's  about  all 
— that's  just  how  it  was.  I'm  glad  that  kid  looked 
me  up  and  brought  me  here  so  that  I  could  tell  you 
myself.  I  wanted  to  see  you  just  once  and  to  tell 
you.  I  didn't  think  you'd  want  to  see  me,  but  she 
said  you  did.  She  said  you'd  been  waiting." 

He  shuffled  away  from  the  fireplace,  and  looked 
about  the  room  for  his  hat,  and,  then,  his  glance  fell 
on  the  gallery  of  portraits  of  Eugene  Errolle — the 
Eugene  Errolle  who  had  died  ten  years  before.  He 

330 


HER    MAN 

looked  back  at  Jessie,  but  on  account  of  the  mist  in 
his  tired  eyes  he  couldn't  see  her  very  distinctly. 
And  his  dry,  hard  lips  refused  to  utter  the  words  he 
wanted  so  much  to  speak. 

"You're  not  going  already,  are  you?"  she 
asked. 

His  answer  scarcely  rose  above  a  whisper. 

"Yes,  Jessie,  I  must  be  going  now.  Good-bye  to 
you  and  bless  you."  He  stretched  two  trembling 
hands  toward  her. 

"Why,  Gene,"  she  said,  "I  thought  perhaps  you'd 
come  to  stay,  now — now  that  you're  free." 

She  glanced  about  the  overcrowded  room,  with 
its  gilt  wall-paper,  and  plush  furniture  and  painted 
banjos.  "I've  been  keeping  the  home  waiting  for 
you  for  such  a  long  time." 

Errolle  had  picked  up  his  hat  and  stood  twisting 
it  slowly  between  his  hands.  Suddenly  he  looked  up 
at  Jessie,  and,  in  her  sweet,  eager  eyes  saw  the  light 
of  a  kind  of  love  that  he  had  not  known  for  many 
years. 

"Do  you  mean,"  he  stammered,  "that  after  all  I've 
done,  that  after  you've  seen  the  wreck  I've  come  to 
be,  that  you  still  want  me?  That  you'll  marry  me, 
Jessie,  and  start  again?" 

331 


HER   MAN 

It  was  half  an  hour  later  when  Gretta,  who  in 
bed  but  still  very  wide-awake  lay  staring  into  the 
darkness  of  her  little  room,  heard  Jessie  lead  Errolle 
down  the  hallway  and  let  him  out  of  the  flat.  She 
heard  the  front  door  close,  and,  then,  Jessie's  foot- 
steps returning  as  far  as  her  own  door. 

"Come  in,  Jessie,"  she  called. 

The  older  woman  came  in,  her  heavy  body  dropped 
slowly  to  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  putting  her  arms 
about  Gretta  she  drew  her  closely  to  her  breast. 

"I  wanted  to  thank  you,"  she  said,  "and  Him  for 
bringing  back  my  man  to  me." 


332 


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